


Muddy Waters

by itsalwayssunnyintaubate



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Crime, Crimes & Criminals, Drinking, Drowning, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Food Porn, Hate Crimes, Investigations, M/M, Muddy Waters, Murder, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-08-27 10:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16700995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwayssunnyintaubate/pseuds/itsalwayssunnyintaubate
Summary: A gruesome murder takes place in London. On a cold autumn night, the bodies of two women resurface in the canal, tied together in an eternal embrace. One has the face of an angel. The other, a stake through her heart.Jonathan Reid and Geoffrey McCullum are brought to help with the investigations."We are in over our head here, gentlemen." Chief of Police Paul Tillman is not happy to admit. Neither Geoffrey nor Jonathan are happy to be there either, but they will have to work together if they want to get to the bottom of this._______________________________________A Criminal Investigation story that takes place in the aftermath of the game's events (bad ending). This story is pretty dark, but I really enjoyed writing it. It is also part of my NaNoWriMo project for 2018, so it is already finished and just needs some polishing to be posted (along with other two pieces I'm posting atm and a few more to come).The title comes from the LP song Muddy Waters. You should all listen to it because it is AMAZING.





	1. The fire pathway

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my mother language. Let me know if there are any mistakes out there that might have slipped through my fingers, please.

The bleeding sun setting over London casts a sinister orange glow over the rapidly darkening alleyways and narrow streets. The city is still crawling in the aftermath of the Spanish Flu and its people have yet to recover from their grief. Their guilt. Death and hatred still linger in the dirty, dark corners of the buildings and market stands, cobblestone polished by boots and horseshoes still stained with blood that no rain shower washes away.

But day in and day out, workers going to their daily races fill up the filthy streets. People can say whatever they want about Londoners, but they are resilient little critters.

As the autumn day ends with cold cutting winds, people burrow inside their coats, breathing visible under the faint streetlights. And absolutely nothing in their weary faces could ever forecast the horrifying events about to unfold.

A young couple approaches the edge of the docks and peek into the dark waters as they talk. Their cheerful chattering quickly dies off as they come face to face with an image that will haunt their darkest dreams for the rest of their lives. The woman screams, clutching at her man, who can only stare, face twisted into confused horror.

The police officers take almost an hour to get there. With scrunched up faces and grunts of discomfort, deputies drag out of the canal the pruned and haunting figures of two women, their bodies tied together into an intimate embrace by thoroughly knotted ropes, thick enough to pull lorries.

 _They look young_ , it’s the first thing Deputy Brannan, the only one who does not look about to pass out, says. That they look young and must have been in the water for at least half a day.

There is no untying those the knots that bind the bodies together, he also says, both because they are too tight, too carefully made, and because no one wants to get close enough to do it.

Victim number one is a petite girl, golden hair loose around her round face, while number two is taller, a lean figure with sharp features, dark brown hair still tied into a long braid that the officers have to push aside to be able to see the wooden stake stuck into her chest.

Brannan sighs, taking a step back. He is thinking about how he definitely does not get paid nearly enough for this as he calls out:

“Chief Tillman! Will you come here a second?”

Paul Tillman looks at where his deputy points and his face darkens.

“Get them covered up, Brannan. This is going to be one hell of a long night,” he very simply states before signalling for the rest of his men to gather around. They are going to need reinforcements.

-x-

“What the ever-living fuck, Chief?” Geoffrey McCullum exclaims, glaring at Tillman. It’s far too late in the night for the amount of people gathered around the docks, but no amount of intimidation from the police seems to make the onlookers go to their homes. Among the citizens, there are police officers and guards from Priwen, all of them too busy glaring daggers at each other to start figuring out what to do with the mess they encountered.

“I’ll explain soon,” Tillman cryptically says, casting an expectant look over his shoulder. Geoffrey grunts, impatient.

“What? Are we waiting for someone?” He demands.

“Yes, in fact…” Tillman waves to a point behind Geoffrey, who turns to look only to feel his stomach sink. “There he is. Dr. Reid! We’re over here!”

Reid politely nods at the men before his gaze stops on one of them as if stuck.

_Geoffrey McCullum._

Just his luck, the doctor thinks.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he says. Geoffrey’s hums a reply even as he feels unsettled by the Ekon’s presence, unmoored. Jonathan’s face, in turn, twists into an odd expression that Geoffrey can’t quite place, but that he immediately understands.

He is not happy to be there either.

Jonathan quickly averts his eyes, clearing his throat.

“What have we here?” He inquires.

Chief Tillman lets out a long-suffering sigh and nods at a deputy to lift the tarp they set over the bodies. It takes both the doctor and the hunter a few seconds to understand exactly what they are looking at, but when they do, any memory of their prior discomfort quickly vanishes.

“Dear God!” Jonathan exclaims, covering his nose and mouth with a cupped hand. The smell at the docks is always quite terrible, but the bodies still drenched in filthy water are on a completely different level.

“Too much for your stomach, _leech_?” Geoffrey can’t help but tease, a condescending smirk on the corner of his mouth even as he tries not to breathe through his nose.

“Don’t be rude, hunter,” Jonathan reprehends him the way he would a misbehaved child, but there is a glint of amusement in his eyes as he averts them from the bodies and calls in a strangled voice: “Chief?”

Tillman nods again and the tarp is lowered.

“Alright, then… a young couple found those two, earlier, as they were walking home. Deputy Brannan has their statements, if you want to check them later…” He points towards where a young-looking officer is talking to a group of fishermen. “To be perfectly clear, gentlemen, we are in way over our heads here. I am not even sure what we’re looking at. It seems like the two girls were a… well, a _couple_ of sorts. You see? They were… er…”

“Romantically involved. We get it, Chief, move on…” Geoffrey lets his impatience get the best of him. Next to him, Jonathan tries to cover a snort with a soft cough.

“Well, they were drowned,” Tillman continues, stumbling over his words. “Actually, we’re not even sure about that. The brown-haired one, as you probably saw… there’s a stake through her chest and _that_ probably happened before they were thrown into the canal.”

“Probably,” Jonathan muses. He trades a look with Geoffrey, whose lips tremble into an amused smirk before he shuts it down with a scowl. “A vampire, then?”

“We think so, yeah. And that’s where you lot come in,” Tillman says, gesturing in the general direction of Jonathan and Geoffrey. “We all know you have your connections with the Ascalon Club, Dr. Reid, and you might have some insight we, as mortals, do not share. We were hoping you could help… And you, McCullum.”

“What about me?” McCullum says, defiant as he crosses his arms.

“Don’t be difficult, hunter,” Tillman groans, lips pressed tightly together. “We need your… expertise. The _city_ needs…”

“Oh, _now_ you want our help?” Geoffrey interrupts the policeman, taking a step forward as Tillman takes one back. Standing up tall as he is, Geoffrey is quite intimidating, even if Tillman is not a short man himself. Geoffrey raises a finger: “You must have really bad memory, huh? But I remember _very well_ that whenever _we_ needed your support, you disregarded us completely.” His eyes narrow. He spits, “ _Fuck_ you, Tillman.”

Jonathan feels like he is intruding somehow. As Geoffrey turns his back on Tillman and stalks towards the edge of the dock, their eyes meet briefly. The hunter looks older, somehow, Jonathan considers. More tired than before. He does not look as hostile, though. He hasn’t really been hostile since their fight at the hospital. He even collaborated when Jonathan was trying to craft an antidote, right before…

Jonathan represses a shiver.

He has been working very hard on not dwelling on the tragic events that unfolded before his return to London. He is not about to go down that road now.

“So you’re not going to collaborate?” Tillman insists. Geoffrey looks over at where the tarp is once again being lifted so that a Priwen cadet can have a closer look, a handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth. Geoffrey does not look at the cadet but at the girls, long extravagant dresses stuck to their legs in odd shapes. They look so young, but who knows how old the brown-haired leech was? He makes a face and says:

“Of course I am.” Tillman’s face uncoils in relief, but McCullum warns him, “I want you to know, though, I’m not doing this for you, Tillman. And you’ll owe us, you understand?”

“Yes. Of course,” The Officer rushes to say. “Well, how do you want to proceed?”

Jonathan finally steps in, saying:

“Let me have a look at them before you ship them off to a mass grave, yes?” It’s Geoffrey’s turn to repress shiver then. He cannot imagine having to look at the bodies for any longer than he already has. “Can you get them to the Pembroke morgue?”

“I suppose. Is it open again?” Jonathan confirms with a nod, but Tillman does not look happy.

“Have you identified them at least?” Geoffrey asks, loud enough to be heard by the men standing the closest to them. The person who answers, however, is not only a citizen but one that both him and Jonathan are quite familiar with.

“That’s… Gabrielle Arnaud. She… She ran away from her family’s house. Last year, if I recall correctly…” Joe Peterson drawls, devoid of his usually aggressive persona. “There were still some posters with her face on across town until a couple of months ago. Someone took them down, I guess.”

Jonathan wants to ask what he’s doing there, but a deputy dreamily sighs:

“A _damn_ shame, if you ask me.”

“ _Nobody_ did. Keep your disgusting opinions to yourself,” Geoffrey snaps at him. He does not like look on the man’s face, the sleazy grin on his lips, the longing tone in his voice. The girls are dead, for Christ’s sake. “What about the leech? Who is she?”

That _word_ again. Jonathan purses his lips.

“That’s…” He tries to jog his memory, frowning. “That _was_ … Lady Morrison. Margaret, I think.”

Geoffrey nods. He takes a step closer to Jonathan and, more quietly, asks, “Was she Ascalon?”

Jonathan shakes his head.

“No. Not at all.”

Not that Jonathan is that well versed in the minutiae of the club. He knows one or two members, but he remembers hearing a lot of disdain for Morrison on the rare event that he was inside the club. He thought nothing of it at the time; after all, the Ascalon members seem to have a lot of disdain for many things. Geoffrey is still looking at him as though waiting for him to finish his thoughts, so Jonathan adds, “Friend of a friend.”

“Of whom?” The hunter demands. Jonathan squares his jaw, staring intently into the man’s dark eyes as if daring him to go down that road, and replies:

“Lady Ashbury.”

“Hm.” Geoffrey scratches his chin, eyes full of sorrow as he looks over the girls. He never was one to turn down a challenge. “Well, if they were friends, they have one more thing in common now…”

As far as bantering with sensitive topics goes, Geoffrey is not as harsh as he could have been, but his words still sting.

“Not the same,” Jonathan bites back, his undead heart heavy and cold inside his chest. “This is _not_ the same thing.”

Elisabeth _wanted_ death. Wanted it so much Jonathan could do nothing to stop her from leaving this world.

But these women…

“I’ll send my men back to their patrols, then, gentlemen. Hopefully something will turn up eventually. The bodies will be in the morgue within the next few hours,” Tillman says. He looks curiously at Jonathan, “You _will_ assist us, right?”

“Of course.” Jonathan replies as if he is not dying on the inside. As Tillman walks away, he turns to Geoffrey and adds so quietly it is almost as if he does not want to be heard, “I actually have an idea where to start.”

Geoffrey’s eyebrows shoot up in interest.

“I’ll come with,” he says in a rush. He is very much looking forward to getting the hell away from the docks, anyway. Jonathan raises an incredulous eyebrow. Geoffrey might be a valuable asset to the investigation, but Jonathan is not sure he should accompany him. And, because Geoffrey can read his hesitation so well, he warns him, “Don’t you think for a second I trust you to deal with this alone, Reid.”

Jonathan exhales an inelegant snort. Concedes:

“Never expected anything different.”

He should not feel offended by the hunter’s words. If their positions were reversed, he would not want the man wandering by himself either, but he still feels bad over his obvious distrust. Moreover, he really cannot understand where the hunter got the idea that they are meant to be enemies. Jonathan has certainly never felt that way towards him. He is a vampire, yes, and Geoffrey is not only a hunter, but the leader of his blast. But they are still _adults_ who both know very little on this Earth is black and white.

In hopes of dissuading the man from tagging along, Jonathan elaborates:

“I’m going to the Ascalon club. I’ll ask a few questions around, talk to Lord Redgrave. He might have something to share about what was happening with Miss Morrison prior to her death. You’re more than welcome to join me, but I really don’t believe you’ll enjoy the experience.”

For a long moment, Geoffrey just stands there and glares at Jonathan with an unreadable expression. It’s unsettling, but Jonathan refuses to look away until, finally satisfied, he huffs, “Lead the way, leech.”

“Call me Jonathan, please,” Jonathan mutters as the hunter falls into step with him. “Since we’re working together and all.”

Geoffrey snorts, but it’s almost fond. It is probably exhausting to be so serious all the time, Jonathan ponders.

“Whatever,” The hunter eloquently responds. “Less talking, more walking... Jonathan.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Ascalon club, Jonathan can't keep his hands to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if i warned you about that, but geoffrey swears like a sailor in this story because reasons.

The closer they get to the Ascalon Club, the more Jonathan feels this is a bad, bad idea. Not that his companion is unable to defend himself. After all, Jonathan has felt himself the hunter’s strength and abilities and even though he had been aided by King Arthur’s blood the last and only time they came to a physical confrontation, Jonathan knows Geoffrey McCullum to be anything but defenceless.

The Ascalon, however…

Well, it is not a good place to take a hunter to.

With that in mind and perfectly aware that the instant he speaks his mind Geoffrey will tell him to shove it, Jonathan tries to find something to focus on other than the tense silence between them.

“What do you reckon Joe Peterson was doing at the docks?” He asks, voice tentative at best.

“How the hell would I know?” Geoffrey promptly replies. At least he seems to be just as happy as Jonathan to be going where they’re going. “Might be up to something with those Wet Boot Boys. Bunch of useless pieces of…”

“Do you think they have anything to do with this?” Jonathan wonders, dragging his feet a little. They will have to walk to a bridge to get to the West End; if Jonathan were by himself, he would just jump over the boats in the canal, but he has the hunter with him…

“Nah,” Geoffrey dismisses his worry. “Doesn’t suit them.”

“What do you mean?” Jonathan presses on.

“They’re gangbangers. They threaten, they extort, they even knock some folks around, but something this… gruesome?” Geoffrey explains with a shiver. “No, this has nothing to do with them. Where are you going?”

“I know a shortcut,” Jonathan says as they approach the edge of a dock. He steps closer to Geoffrey and touches his shoulder, softly saying, “Trust me.”

But Geoffrey jumps away from his, batting his hands off.

“Good God, stop _touching_ me, Reid!”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. Trust a Priwen guard to be sensitive about personal space, the weirdos. Jonathan steps closer one more time and censures him, “Stop fussing.”

Before the hunter can react, Jonathan has an arm looped around his middle and one, two jumps later they are across the canal, darkness lingering around them for a few seconds before vanishing.

“There,” Jonathan says, letting go of the hunter. Geoffrey stumbles to the side, his feet not very firm on the ground, and Jonathan reaches out again to steady him.

“Goddamn it… that felt weird,” he complains, shaking his head. Jonathan smiles to himself, entertained by the hunter’s discomfort.

“Are you okay?” He asks, amused, and squeezes the man’s arm.

“Fine,” Geoffrey replies and again slaps Jonathan’s hands away.

Jonathan shakes his head and starts walking. Geoffrey begrudgingly follows him.

“Stop lagging,” Jonathan tells him after a couple of minutes. Geoffrey rolls his eyes. His stomach feels all sorts of wrong from the jump, nausea lingering around the corners. He barks back:

“Stop rushing me!”

They turn a corner and see patrolling men in familiar uniforms a little farther ahead. Geoffrey and Jonathan stop dead on their feet as a rookie calls out:

“Oi! McCullum!”

Geoffrey promptly shoves Jonathan into the shadows of a house, whispering, “Wait here.”

A grey-bearded Priwen executioner joins the rookie walking towards Geoffrey and asks, “What are you doing here, McCullum?”

“Horace. Johnson,” Geoffrey greets his men. “You haven’t heard about what happened at the docks?”

“The dead girls?” The red-haired rookie called Johnson says, looking at the leader while the rest of the patrol keep their distance. “Yeah, we heard.”

“A human girl and a leech, right? Ghastly stuff,” Horace, the executioner, replies. Geoffrey sighs. Words travel fast these days.

“I’m on my way to check the Ascalon club for any leads…” he explains because it is not a bad idea to have his men know where he is going. Before he gets any further, however, Johnson interrupts him:

“Should we go with you?”

That actually gets a bitter laugh out of Geoffrey. Johnson has been with them for a couple of months at most; he joined a little after Jonathan stopped the Disaster after a rogue Vukod killed his entire family and he had nowhere to go but to the Priwen Headquarters. At the time, he wasn’t responding to ‘he’ pronouns, either, but he never corrected the first guards who thought he was a boy and now, here they are, neck deep into his lie. _Her_ lie. Geoffrey is still not sure.

“No, better not. They’re… moderately civilized, you know. But if I show up with you lot, they might get the wrong idea,” Geoffrey half-heartedly explains. He points behind him. “Besides, Reid is with me.”

“The… doctor?” Horace frowns and Jonathan steps out of the shadows with a frown, but does not approach the guards.

Johnson just raises a knowing eyebrow, “That right?”

“What?” Geoffrey questions, uncomfortable under the rookie’s amused eyes.

“Nothing, just…” Johnson shrugs. “Strange bedfellows, am I right?”

“Shut up, Johnson,” Horace censures him. Johnson makes a face, but stays quiet. To Geoffrey, the executioner adds, “Be careful.”

“Always am,” Geoffrey replies, stepping back and away, and promises, “We’ll talk in the morning.”

-x-

“Are you sure you want to come with?” Jonathan asks the hunter for what feels like the tenth time. “You could wait here.”

“Not a fucking chance in hell,” Geoffrey politely answers as they approach the club’s entrance.

“Okay, all right,” Jonathan sighs in defeat. He knocks on the red door and whispers, “But you stick close to me, you hear me?”

A small opening appears on the door and the doorman’s icy stare greets them.

“Dr. Reid. What a surprise. And… McCullum,” his voice is quiet and even, as revealing as his blank face. “May I inquire what brings you here tonight?”

“I would like a word with Lord Redgrave, if he is available,” Jonathan says. Without another word, the door opens to them. Jonathan moves a little closer to the hunter just to be safe as they cross the portal. It’s as much because he worries about the hunter’s safety in here as it is because he’s afraid Geoffrey will jump the Ekon that welcomes them if Jonathan does not keep an eye on him.

“You are lucky, Dr. Reid. Lord Redgrave is upstairs. I don’t think he will object to a few words with you gentlemen...” The doorman says, stepping aside to let the visitors come through. “Have a nice evening.”

As they ascend the stairs, Jonathan notices that Geoffrey is now every bit as restless as he is. The hunter keeps glancing over his shoulder as if he is being watches, but they meet no one until they reach the saloon on first floor. The quiet chatter of the few Ekons that are around cease as they approach and their eyes zero on Geoffrey, who freezes beside Jonathan. He almost reaches for his crossbow, but he knows his weapons would do him little good against… he counts seven Ekons. Visible, at least. What stops him from taking out his crossbow, though, is not this thought but the fact that Jonathan takes hold of his elbow, guiding him across the room with a firm, steady hand.

Geoffrey wouldn’t admit it in a lifetime, but the touch makes him feel a little more grounded. He knows, of course, that the Ascalon Ekons will not attack him without provocation, not now, and that’s not what he fears. Not exactly. They look at him as if he’s a feast and they haven’t eaten in a week. It makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, a twisted sense of helplessness settling into his chest and making him feel sick.

“Jonathan Reid. What a surprise,” the raspy voice that Geoffrey recognises as being Lord Redgrave’s greets tem as soon as they step beyond the curtain that keeps him separate from the other members of the club. Him and Geoffrey have actually come across one another a couple of times in the past, always in the wrong place, the wrong time for Geoffrey to cut his head off. The ancient vampire raises a hand to shake Jonathan’s, but the younger Ekon ignores him in favour of stepping a bit closer to Geoffrey, hand sliding up the hunter’s arm until it’s plastered to the middle of his back. “I see you even brought a snack. Always nice to see you, McCullum.”

It’s just a word, but it sets Geoffrey’s blood on fire. _Snack_.

“I’d say the same, but I’m trying to avoid lying through my teeth lately,” Geoffrey shoots back and feels Jonathan’s hand press harder on his back.

“Oh, he’s feisty, your human, Jonathan,” Redgrave comments, disregarding Geoffrey completely. “What gives us the pleasure of your visit?”

“Margaret Morrison,” Jonathan says in a carefully controlled voice. Geoffrey relaxes against him as Lord Redgrave circles them with slow steps.

“The lesbian?” He asks with disdain colouring every syllable. “What about her?”

Jonathan clears his throat.

“She’s dead.”

“And why would that concern Ascalon?”

There’s a calculated carelessness in the way Redgrave speaks, slowly as if they had all the time in the world. Geoffrey is finding it difficult to breathe. If they were fighting, it would be easier. He is comfortable with combat. This, _whatever_ this thing they’re doing is, is not comfortable. Jonathan’s rubs a slow circle on the back of his shoulder, pulling him flush against his side as Redgrave steps closer to them, breathing deeply as if he is trying to smell the hunter.

And Jonathan almost can’t blame him, really. He _is_ almost doing the same thing. There is a tempting kind of sweetness surrounding Geoffrey that has him licking his fangs in anticipation and, since he actually _knows_ what the hunter’s blood _tastes_ like, Jonathan is in a whole other level of temptation. He tells himself he is standing so close to the hunter because everyone needs to know he’s with Jonathan and, posh as they might be, they’re also beasts of instinct that will respond to physical closeness more than to social conventions. But being this close to him is easier than Jonathan expected it to be.

“She was murdered,” Jonathan says, basking in the way Redgrave takes a step back after he pulls Geoffrey flush against his side. “Stabbed with a stake and thrown into the canal tied to her human lover.”

Jonathan chooses his words very carefully, watching out for Redgrave’s reaction, but the older vampire just continues to circle them very slowly.

“Oh…” Redgrave croons. “I can’t really say I’m sorry to hear that. Such poor taste, don’t you think? Using humans for anything other than… sustenance.”

“You disgusting…” Geoffrey starts. Jonathan fingers sink into his uniform coat, feeling muscle and bone under the fabric, holding the hunter against him. Before Geoffrey is able to say anything else, he inquires:

“Lord Redgrave, have you heard anything about it?”

“This is the first I hear about it, I’m afraid,” Redgrave replies. He finally stops moving, unblinking eyes shooting daggers at the other two. “But you know what? Aloysius Dawson met with her a while back, if I recall correctly. She has, of course, been snubbed by the entire vampiric community since her… _situation_ became more broadly known, but Aloysius has always had a stronger stomach for certain practices. You might want to meet with him. He _is_ your Progeny, after all…”

Jonathan tenses, not as much in response to Redgrave’s word as in reaction to Geoffrey’s surprised gasp, so quiet it might as well have been an illusion.

“I know you haven’t seen him since his turning. He doesn’t resent you, you know,” Redgrave goes on, but his eyes are focuses on Geoffrey instead of Jonathan. “He’ll tell you all about how Margaret’s association to Miss Arnaud ruined her to society. I hope you’re smart enough to heed her story as a cautionary tale.”

As he speaks, he steps in closer to Geoffrey as if to inspect him. Jonathan, moving more on instinct than anything else, grabs Geoffrey around the softness of his waist to pull him away. Lord Redgrave crackles in delight.

Geoffrey doesn’t like it. Doesn’t being manhandled and doesn’t like how small it all makes him feel. Like he is less than a person, something to be used to make Jonathan uncomfortable more than anything else.

“I’m out of here,” Geoffrey says, extricating himself from Jonathan’s hold and leaving the room before the Ekon can react.

“Until we meet again,” Redgrave dismissively says as Jonathan turns to follow the human. “Dr. Reid.”

Jonathan doesn’t bother replying. He rushes through the curtains in search of Geoffrey and finds him almost out of the saloon standing face to face to one of the Ekons there. The Ekon stands is blocking the hunter’s way to the stairs, a smug smirk plastered on his pale face. He reminds him of Jonathan, but not exactly. And not in a good way, anyway.

“Goddamn it…” Jonathan mumbles as he approaches the hunter, effectively wiping the smirk on the other vampire’s face. Geoffrey barely reacts when Jonathan lays a possessive hand on his shoulders and proceeds to very obviously stare the other Ekon into submission.

“Oh, forgive me, Dr. Reid. I didn’t realise…”

It’s the kind of thing you say if you take a seat previously occupied by another person and Geoffrey wants to scream, to punch something, but he doesn’t. They don’t stay there for much longer, anyway, and as soon as they reach the streets Geoffrey pushes Jonathan away, exclaiming:

“Stop fucking _touching_ me!” There’s still a phantom warmth on the small of his back and Geoffrey doesn’t know what to do with it because he knows for a fact that Jonathan’s hands have no warmth at all. He’s an Ekon. They’re not really cold, but their flesh is not warm. “I _knew_ there was a reason I only interacted with those arseholes with a stake in my hand! Bunch of creeps…”

“I warned you,” Jonathan says even though he has never seen vampires behaving that way. It is not like he has rivers of knowledge of Ekon protocol, anyway, and he had never been inside vampire territory with a human by his side.

“I know you did, but fuck you too,” Geoffrey grunts and it actually yanks a surprised laugh out of the doctor. Now that they are outside, he relaxes into a less tense demeanour as Geoffrey states, “I need a drink.”

Jonathan stares as the hunter turns on his heels and starts walking away.

“Where are you going?” Jonathan demands to know.

“The Turquoise Turtle,” Geoffrey shoots. Well, at least he is not talking about Aloysius Dawson, Jonathan thinks. Yet. “You’re welcome to join me, but I’ll cut your bloody hand off if you touch me again!”

Jonathan snorts, but considers the invitation. They do need to sit down and come up with some kind of plan and the Turquoise Turtle is as much of a good place to do that as any other. Jonathan nevertheless makes a point of maintaining a careful distance between him and the hunter on the way there. He rather enjoys having both his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, I know it's been a while. Sorry! I was busy finishing other works... I have this thing where I work on lots of different projects at the same time but I swear I'm still here and this story is not abandoned.  
> I REPEAT: THIS STORY IS NOT ABANDONED.
> 
> This piece just requires a bit more from me than other, lighter and fluffier (and smuttier) works.
> 
> Also: I should title this chapter "STOP TOUCHING MEEEEE!!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Turquoise Turtle it is. Some difficult talks, some difficult people.

Coming up with a plan doesn’t seem to be very high on the priorities of Geoffrey McCullum, who, around his third whiskey, keeps going on and on about what absolute creeps the Ascalon vampires are behind all those fancy titles and how little leverage they have to criticise anyone else’s life choices.

“They tend to be quite outspoken about their disapproval of all things non-bourgeois…” Jonathan concedes, peering into the golden ale inside his glass. He would say it is a shame he can’t drink it, but he was always more of a wine man, anyway.

“They were living not one, but two taboos, you see. The Arnaud girl and Morrison,” Geoffrey drawls, his irritation wrestled into something almost hopeless as the night progresses. “Being two women. And being vampire and a human.”

“Thanks for the clarification, but I had gathered as much,” Jonathan huffs. With a thoughtful look, he remarks, “You don’t seem too put-off by their homosexuality.”

Geoffrey shrugs.

“I’m only interested in knowing which one of the two things got them killed, Jonathan. I couldn’t care less about their… _situation_ , as that Redgrave bastard put it.” Geoffrey downs his drink and signals Tom Watts for another one before he looks at Jonathan’s mostly full beer. “You’re really going to let me drink alone?”

“Can’t drink, Geoffrey,” Jonathan smiles bitterly at him.

“Oh, shit. Sorry. I forgot,” Geoffrey says and he really looks it. It makes something warm spread inside Jonathan’s stomach, the softness around the hunter’s tired face. When he is not looking at Jonathan as if wondering what the doctor’s head would look like separated from his body, Geoffrey can be quite a charming man.

“You fellas were talking about those queer ladies, yeah?” Tom says as he pours Geoffrey another drink. He looks at his clients with a wondering glint is his eyes and comments, “Such a waste of good pussy, am I right?”

“Don’t be disgusting, Watts,” Geoffrey reprimands him, but takes the glass he fills up. The last fucking thing he needs is the association of the horrible images he saw earlier and sex. As if he doesn’t have enough crossed wired already. “You knew them?

Watts crosses his arms, but doesn’t even look hurt over the hunter’s scolding.

“Not really. I mean… The Arnaud girl stayed here a couple of nights when she ran away. I thought she was having problems at home,” he says, uninterested, but anger colours his next words. “If I knew the shit she was up to, I would have kicked her right out on the street.”

“Shut up, the hell you would…” Geoffrey responds, but there’s some amusement and his tone. Tom hesitates, but gives in:

“No, you’re right. Tiny girl like that.” There’s a distressed look in his eyes. “But I should have contacted her parents. That filthy Morrison. It was too late when I finally heard about it.”

“Yeah, we all heard about it too late,” Geoffrey cuts him off. Takes a sip from his glass before continuing, “We’ll find whoever did this, though. And when we do, they better pray I don’t kill them.”

“Whoa, easy there, hunter.” Watts mocks him, but ends up saying, “But I get it. Arnaud was a good girl. Bad influences and all that… it’s such a pity.”

With that, Jonathan has had enough. He sets some money on the bar and stands up with purpose, not bothering with goodbyes. There’s only so much he can endure of this kind of disrespect. They don’t know what happened, but two girls are dead and the way the bartender speaks is making Jonathan sick to his stomach.

Geoffrey rolls his eyes with a sigh, but keeps Tom company for a couple of minutes more before downing the last of his whiskey and going after the doctor. Jonathan has his back against the wall outside, icy-blue eyes staring sightlessly into the night when Geoffrey finds him.

Geoffrey swallows thickly. Jonathan looks utterly lost for such a dangerous creature.

“Thought you ditched me, doc,” Geoffrey says, but he’s not serious. He didn’t really think Jonathan was going to leave him so easily. He steps a little closer and quietly asks, “What’s the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with _me_?!” Jonathan immediately reacts, disbelief and anger twisting his elegant features. “How long were you going to indulge him?”

“Just enough,” Geoffrey says, something dark lingering at the corners of his eyes. “You remember Whitaker?”

“The priest?”

“Yeah. Apparently, his usual rants have been very focused on our victims as of late…” Geoffrey explains. “But I could go back inside and tell Watts and all the information and gossip he gets from staying behind that counter day after day to go to hell…”

“You think we should check Whitaker?” Jonathan asks, promptly ignoring the second part of what Geoffrey said. Geoffrey huffs out a fond snort and concedes:

“I think we should check Whitaker, yeah.” He steps away, waiting for Jonathan to follow him. Jonathan does and he drones: “Stupid vampires…”

“Are you drunk?” Jonathan asks.

“I’m Irish, Jonathan,” it’s Geoffrey’s answer. “I’m either always drunk or never, you take your pick.”

Jonathan actually laughs at that. Geoffrey never really smells of alcohol. Not that Jonathan has been around him much, but he is good at noticing signs of alcoholism, especially after his turning.

Tonight, however, there is a blush on Geoffrey’s cheeks along with the warm honeyed scent in his breath.

“Are we going there now?” Jonathan asks, thinking about Whitaker tendency to keep his ramblings going all night long.

“Fuck, I don’t know.” Geoffrey stops walking suddenly and looks at Jonathan. “What do you think?”

The question comes as a surprise. Jonathan knew they would have to collaborate in order to understand what happened to the girls, but Geoffrey’s demand for his input still shocks him a little. It is a good kind of shock, though. Definitely good.

“Maybe we should go to Dawson first,” Jonathan cautiously suggests. “He might be expecting us.”

Geoffrey obviously catches on to that, because he asks:

“How do you know that?”

Jonathan makes a face.

“I can _feel_ it,” he admits. He doesn’t _like_ it, the bond he forged with Aloysius when he turned him. Had he known he would have that kind of connection with the man, he would never had done it.

“Oh, I forgot. You’re his _Maker_ ,” Geoffrey says, scornful. He doesn’t see the way Jonathan’s face crumbles as they start walking back to the West End.

“I’m not proud of it,” Jonathan mumbles after a while.

“Good. You shouldn’t be,” Geoffrey replies, unrepentant. “What the fuck were you even thinking?”

Jonathan purses his lips. Everything in him aches because he knows this decision, this awful decision, was what brought him to the situation he is in: alone in this endless existence. Elisabeth, is mentor, his friend, could not stand by what he did and therefore _he_ was not enough to make her want to stay in this world. She did not trust him and there is a part of Jonathan, a big part, that wonders if she was right about it. About him.

“I wasn’t. I didn’t think I had a choice,” Jonathan confesses. Geoffrey sighs.

“You always have a choice,” he says.

“He was dying,” Jonathan reasons, more to himself than to the hunter. The hunter still answers, though.

“So was Swansea, wasn’t he?” Jonathan looks at him in shock. That’s another death that will haunt him forever. Another friend that he lost, even though he does not really know if Swansea was ever really a friend of his. “I hear things, Jonathan. And… for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. About him.”

“Thanks,” Jonathan says, but his voice is cold. So cold. “I don’t even know if _I_ am sorry about him. I mean… what he _did_.”

“He made a fucking mess, yeah. But I didn’t want his blood on our hands.” Jonathan knows Geoffrey is talking about the guard, but he feels included, a part of ‘us’. “Why didn’t you turn him? You could have saved him.”

“I… I couldn’t…” Jonathan says. His throat closes around the words. He hasn’t talked to anyone about what happened. Not really. Everyone is either terrified of him or can’t really care less if he lives or dies. “Look at what I’ve done. Look at the mess I made by trying to help, what my so-called assistance did to this world. I just… I couldn’t.”

Jonathan only realises he stopped walking when Geoffrey touches his arm. Jonathan covers his mouth with the palm of his hand and feels the hunter draw a slow circle against his coat sleeve, thumb pressing against fabric to comfort skin. Flesh. Muscle. Bone.

“There is _so much_ I am sorry for, hunter,” Jonathan whispers like it’s a secret, cursed words not meant to be heard. Geoffrey is close enough that Jonathan can smell the alcohol in his breath as he asks:

“Are you sorry you didn’t kill me?”

Jonathan eyes snap to Geoffrey’s unreadable ones. He is very sincere as he says:

“No. Not at all.”

Geoffrey stares back at him for a second and Jonathan feels as though he might as well be completely naked under the scrutiny. Then the hunter nods, satisfied by whatever it is he’s found in Jonathan’s eyes, and they resume their walk in silence.

-x-

By the time they reach Dawson’s mansion, Geoffrey has already listed every single reason he has to despise the man. As Jonathan holds the door for Geoffrey to step inside the building, he can’t help but agree.

“Not even gonna knock?” Geoffrey asks.

“He knows we’re here.” Jonathan’s voice is a puff of smoke in the dark London night. Geoffrey does not seem happy about what he says.

“Is he alone?” He asks.

Jonathan nods and walks ahead of the hunter through the gloom and luxury of the mansion. When they find him, Aloysius Dawson is sitting on an armchair with a book in his hands, which he promptly sets aside as they enter.

“Finally,” he stands up and approaches Jonathan, who looks at him with revulsion. “My Maker. My Sire.”

“Dawson,” Jonathan replies. For a second Geoffrey thinks Dawson is just going to completely ignore him, which he is perfectly fine with, but then the old man’s dead eyes fall on him with an amused glint and he asks:

“Oh, you brought dinner?”

“He’s a friend,” Jonathan says very seriously, a warning in his every syllable. “Stand back, Dawson.”

Dawson blinks and, after a few seconds, nods obediently, taking a step back.

“Oh. Of course,” he drones, looking between Jonathan and Geoffrey with knowing, narrowed eyes. “Are you, by any chance…?”

Geoffrey finally understands, then, what Jonathan must have felt earlier when they were at the Ascalon club. There is such an off-putting eagerness in the way Dawson is looking at them that Geoffrey finds himself _wanting_ to step closer to Jonathan, to somehow reassure him, reassure himself. Dawson grins.

“Oh, but it would be _lovely_ to have a brother…” he jabs at Jonathan. Geoffrey chokes on air, looking at Jonathan with confusion.

“What the hell is he talking about, Jonathan?”

Jonathan exhales a worn-out sigh.

“He thinks I’m going to turn you,” he explains, locking eyes with Geoffrey as if trying to reassure him that those are not his intentions.

“You sick fuck...” Geoffrey groans, looking down at Dawson, who raises an eyebrow.

“ _I’m_ the sick one?” There’s some sarcasm lying among the words, but Geoffrey does not get it. He runs a hand through his own hair. They cannot have been inside for more than ten minutes, but he already wants to get the fuck away from there. More seriously, Dawson says, “I see this isn’t a social call, then.”

“Not at all,” Jonathan confirms, crossing his arms. “Redgrave tells me you met with Margaret Morrison a while ago. Is it true?”

“Oh, yes. Lovely lady. Such a shame, really, what happened to her…” Dawson immediately says. At least he is not making this more difficult than it has to be, Geoffrey thinks to himself.

“So you heard?” he prods.

“Oh, yes. News travel fast nowadays. I have my sources.” Dawson smirks. “But I’m afraid I can’t really help you. I did meet with her, but it was almost a month ago and purely business.”

“What _kind_ of business?” Geoffrey demands. This time, though, Dawson ignores him in favour of talking to Jonathan with a disgustingly gleeful spark in his eyes.

“Oh, isn’t he adorable? Are you sure I can’t take a little bite? He sure is delicious, Jonathan. You have such _impeccable_ taste.”

“You fucking…” Geoffrey starts to say, hand pressing against the grip of his sword, but Jonathan stops him from unsheathing it, fingers cold against the warm skin of Geoffrey’s wrist.

“Geoffrey…” Jonathan warns him. Geoffrey forces himself to take a deep breath as Jonathan offers, “Do you want to wait outside?”

Geoffrey shakes his head, eyes burning holes into Dawson, who looks only at Jonathan. Geoffrey intends to push Jonathan’s hand away, but he only sort of... _pets_ it.

“She wanted to sell her property and _that’s_ something I am very good at. If I recall correctly, she needed money so that she and her human lover could flee the country. Flee persecution,” Dawson explains. “Such a romantic tale, isn’t it? And they were _so_ close. I had found her a buyer, you see…”

“Who?” Jonathan asks before Geoffrey has the chance to do so.

“A close friend. You wouldn’t know him, really…” Dawson examines his own fingernails with an aggravating sneer. “Sir Isaac Livingston. Heard of him?”

“Not really,” Jonathan admits, but Geoffrey is pretty sure they’ve already gotten enough information.

“I have,” Geoffrey says, nodding towards the way they came. “Let’s go, Jonathan.”

Jonathan doesn’t really move until Geoffrey puts his hand right above his elbow, the swell of his triceps under his palm.

“So soon?” Dawson teases, taking a step closer to Geoffrey. Geoffrey stands his ground, but it takes every ounce of his self-control not to draw his sword and cut the blood-sucker’s head off. “Won’t you stay for supper, hunter? You would make a marvellous main course.”

With that, Jonathan snaps out of whatever’s gotten into him and hurriedly says, “Goodbye, Dawson.” When he turns around, Geoffrey is right next to him, but he can’t help but lay a hand on the hunter’s shoulder as if to make sure they’re both walking as fast as they can.

As they leave, Dawson coos, “You two have a good night. Hunter. My Maker.”

The possessive adjective makes the whiskey in Geoffrey’s stomach threaten to come back up.

“You might have made him, but I’ll fucking kill him!” Geoffrey barks when they’re outside. “What’s the problem with you guys? Are all vampires creepy like this?” He starts pacing. Jonathan reaches out to make him stop and gets his hand slapped away. “Stop _touching_ me, Jonathan!”

“Sorry…” Jonathan quickly says. Eyes downcast, he explains, “I might be feeling a little… protective of you.”

Geoffrey doesn’t really need the explanation. He already knew that. It’s written all over Jonathan’s face, on the way he’s been behaving the entire night.

“We’re outside now. I’m fine,” Geoffrey says and he doesn’t mean for it to really be reassuring, but it sounds like he’s trying to comfort the doctor.

Jonathan still looks sad. He has the same lost look he had on outside the Turquoise Turtle, but Geoffrey decides not to press into it. He doesn’t need mindreading powers to know what Reid is thinking about. The man has, after all, his fair share of grief and regret to ponder on.

Were Elisabeth here, she would know what to do, Jonathan thinks. She always knew what to do.

He misses her terribly.

“Don’t worry, Reid. If Dawson steps one toe out of line, I’ll have his fucking head,” Geoffrey offers as they begin walking off, wandering towards the West End’s marketplace. “He was creepy enough when he was alive, but as a vampire? He makes my skin crawl, and I’ve seen my fair share of formidable beasts. Well… Where to now?”

Jonathan can’t help but agree with Geoffrey, whose collocations offer him a strange kind of comfort as they steer his thoughts away from the dark corners of his mind.

“I’m afraid it’s a little too close to my bedtime, hunter,” Jonathan says. He does not need to check the time to know that the night is ending and that very soon no place will be safe for him out on the streets. “I’ll be staying at my family’s residence today. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Geoffrey looks at him curiously.

“I’ll stop by,” he says after a second, taking a step back as they prepare to part ways. “Around seven?”

Jonathan offers a hand that the hunter promptly shakes. He has warm hands, Jonathan thinks right before wondering what it would be like to sink his fangs on the callused and rough surface of his palm. With the soft smile of a man faced with all he wants and no possibility of ever having it, Jonathan says:

“It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, we have more creepy creepers creepying  
> and, as you can see, this story has come after the darkest of dark endings. everybody dies, except for dawson, because who doesn't love a tortured dr. reid? (what am I saying, the poor baby, I'm gonna write so much fruff once I'm done here)  
> and we have more touching  
> don't you just love the smell of sexual tension building in the morning? I certainly do
> 
> also, I'm back on tumblr: itsalwayssunnyintaubate.tumblr.com  
> feel free to drop by ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morgue.

Right before the sun sets, Jonathan wakes up. Faint orange light bleeds around his heavy curtains turning his room into some hellish rendering of reality. It is not very far from how he feels when his mind starts to catch up to what he has to do. One more night running around town with death and misery nipping at his heels.

As the day dies outside, Jonathan stands up, stretching his muscles as if this is a perfectly normal night. He washes up, gets dressed and, when he swallows, he does it ignoring how tight his throat feels.

Truth is, this staying up all night and sleeping during the day thing isn’t that much of a change to his lifestyle. He has, after all, worked some crazy shifts in his life. It’s everything that comes along that makes it nearly impossible for him to live with himself.

“Are you already leaving, Mr. Jonathan?” Avery, the butler, asks when he spots the Ekon hanging around the entrance hall of the house as if deciding whether to venture outside or not. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Not tonight, Avery. I’m sorry,” Jonathan replies with a faint smile. It does not reach his eyes, but it’s there, a nibble of kindness. He is perfectly aware that Avery misses having a family to cook for, but there isn’t much Jonathan can do. “I’m just waiting for someone.”

The older man nods with tired, bleary eyes. He’s probably been crying, Jonathan thinks.

“For whom, if I may ask,” mumbles Avery.

“Geoffrey McCullum, from the Priwen Guard?” Jonathan promptly replies. He worries about Avery, sometimes, all alone in the mansion, day in and day out. Were his mother still alive… “He and I are assisting with that horrible murder at the docks…”

“Terrible, terrible thing, Mr. Jonathan,” Avery pronounces. “In all these years, rarely have I heard of something so horrific…”

Jonathan can’t help but agree. Sure, he remembers the ripper, so many years ago, but _this_ doesn’t feel like the same thing.

“I hope you find the ones responsible, sir.”

“Thank you, Avery,” Jonathan darkly replies. The butler looks like he’s about to go away, but changes his mind halfway.

“If I may overstep a bit, sir…”

“Yes?”

“It might not be wise to trust this Priwen gentleman.” Jonathan face twists into a confused frown before he manages to school his expression into something neutral. Avery, bless his heart, notices nothing. “This _event_ … really sounds like something the Priwen rejects would be involved in…”

“Rejects?” inquires Jonathan. This is the first time he is hearing about such group. Avery nods.

“Oh, yeah. The ones who got kicked out of the guard.” He explains. “Insane, horrible men, Mr. Jonathan. You be careful around them.”

Jonathan is about to ask for more information when a sharp knock at the door snatches his attention. As Avery moves to answer it, Jonathan stops him. “I’ll get it. Thank you, Avery.”

Opening the door, Jonathan comes face to face with a very uncomfortable-looking Geoffrey McCullum. Jonathan inhales. He is dressed in a very clean uniform and he smells…

Jonathan almost forgets to greet him, _that’s_ how good he smells.

He’s shaved clean, so it’s probably his aftershave, Jonathan thinks. Or shaving cream? Cologne?

Jonathan swallows, mouth dry as a desert.

“How did you sleep, princess?” Geoffrey pokes with a teasing smirk. He seems to be in a better mood tonight. Jonathan shuts the door and follows the hunter onto the street, replying:

“Fine. You?”

“Just fine, but I had the weirdest dream…” Geoffrey speaks. Jonathan raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to proceed, and the hunter does not disappoint, “I might have officially lost it, I’m telling you… In this dream, I was trapped inside this round silver room – this reflective domed room. And I couldn’t get out, you see? So I started knocking on the walls. They were made of metal, the walls, so they sounded… odd. Then the entire room sort of… lifted? And I realised I was on a tray. In the middle of a dinner table… people staring at me with knives and forks in hand.”

“That’s… quite vivid,” Jonathan drawls. Shocking as it is to have Geoffrey talking so much without trying to threaten or offend him, the Ekon can’t help but smile. “You have a surprisingly active imagination, Geoffrey.”

“You tell me!” Geoffrey responds with a suffering sigh. “But I suppose that’s to be expected, after last night. I swear, I was so grossed out, when I got to the headquarters I almost boiled myself alive in the bath.”

Jonathan’s smile dies. He has no idea if Geoffrey is referring to their visit to the Ascalon club, Dawson or just the events they are investigating. Yet, he says, “I’m sorry about that.”

Geoffrey waves a dismissive hand at him, murmuring, “It’s not your fault.” Then, suddenly as if the thought has just occurred to him, he probes: “Hey, Jonathan, do you… _dream_?”

Geoffrey sneaks a glance at Jonathan just as they reach the marketplace. He looks sad.

“Not really. I haven’t since I was, you know… turned,” Jonathan responds. “Which I guess is a good thing, considering…”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. I kind of envy you…” Geoffrey promptly replies. He lets out a heavy sigh, hands going to his hips, and asks, “Shall we go to Whitaker or what?”

Jonathan shakes his head.

“I should stop by the morgue, actually,” He should have told the hunter the night before, but only when he was already in bed it occurred to him that the bodies were waiting.

“I’ll come with,” Geoffrey offers. Jonathan shakes his head again.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” the hunter replies. “But we need to talk, anyway. I’m warning you, though: I’m not going to watch, all right?”

-x-

Geoffrey was not joking when he said he had no intention to watch the procedure. While Jonathan works on the bodies, the hunter stares at the walls, at his own feet, at Jonathan’s handsome face twisted in concentration while they banter and talk about their ideas on the case.

“Listen, Avery mentioned something today,” Jonathan begins to say halfway through his examination the second body. Gabrielle Arnaud. She can’t have been more than eighteen years old.

“Oh, yeah? Who is Avery?” Geoffrey asks.

“Well, he’s the… butler.”

“Of course you have a butler,” The hunter says with a huff that is entirely too fond. Jonathan doesn’t smile, though. He can’t stomach it when he is elbow deep in guts.

“He’s worked for my family… ugh… for a _very_ long time,” Jonathan explains. “He said something about… Priwen rejects?”

“Oh, of course! That’s brilliant!” Geoffrey exclaims, abandoning his examination of an anatomical diagram of the human heart just in time to see Jonathan begin to close the girl’s body. He immediately turns back around. He is usually much better than this at handling gory visuals, but the whole case has him so outside his comfort zone he almost regrets coming along. He does not want Jonathan to notice, though, so he carries on, “It’s just the kind of thing those arseholes would… I don’t know. Bunch of fuckers... I’ll go talk to them later. You needn’t worry about it.”

The amount of profanity coming out of Geoffrey’s mouth on a regular basis should be off-putting and not endearing, Jonathan ponders before immediately thinking that, whoa, this is _not_ something he wants to think about now.

“I’ll come with you,” He offers, but Geoffrey instantly turns him down:

“Ooh, no, you won’t.” Jonathan looks over to the hunter’s broad shoulders, stretched as he abandons the heart model for one of a head. “These are _not_ the Ascalon vampires, Johnny-boy. I can’t protect you from them.”

Jonathan laughs aloud at the nickname. His mother used to call him that when he was no more than a boy, but those memories carry some bitterness to them as they feel like they belong to a different person, living in a different world.

“I really don’t like the idea of you going alone,” Jonathan considers, trying and failing not to sound concerned. Geoffrey snorts.

“Good thing I’m not asking for your permission, Reid.”

Jonathan steps away from the bodies to wash up.

“You can’t really stop me from coming,” he challenges and can hear the smile on the hunter’s voice when he stubbornly replies:

“I’ll go during the day.”

Jonathan dries his hands off and pulls a cover over the bodies. He avoids looking at them and, in doing so, catches Geoffrey looking at him with a thoughtful look. He’ll have to let people know the bodies are ready to be buried or whatever their destiny is going to be, but right now he takes a moment to feel glad he’s not alone in the morgue.

“I won’t insist,” he says, approaching the hunter with slow, measured steps. “But you be careful, okay?”

Geoffrey nods, eyes going soft. “I’ll be.” He then nods towards the bodies and asks, “Did you find anything?”

Jonathan shakes his head. Holds the morgue door open for Geoffrey to come through.

“There’s nothing unusual about the bodies,” he says, following the hunter outside. “There were a couple of punctures on Gabrielle, though, but I reckon that’s to be expected.”

As soon as he finishes his sentence, Jonathan’s face turns hot. Gabrielle was involved with a vampire and it took very little effort to understand what the marks on her body meant. Lady Morrison had been drinking from her.

It is quite difficult, however, to drink from a human in moderation. Jonathan knows that from experience.

He has been able to, however, when he fought Geoffrey.

“Where?” Geoffrey asks. Jonathan blinks at him. “The punctures you mentioned…”

“Oh. Her wrist and inner arm… her inner thigh. Her… breast,” Jonathan chokes out. Geoffrey stops on his tracks.

“What were you looking at her breast for, you pervert?” he teases, clearly missing the point that caused the vampire’s embarrassment. Punctures on such intimate locations. Made by _fangs_. Fangs that are inside _mouths_.

Fuck, Jonathan’s _hungry_.

“It was a clinical look, Geoffrey,” the doctor replies very seriously. “Get your head out of the gutter.”

At that, Geoffrey lets out a hearty laugh. Together, they make their way into the hospital. Before they reach the front desk, though, Geoffrey comments, “You look relieved.”

Jonathan shrugs. The whole nature of the crime, the careful way the girls were mounted together… it all raised suspicions that the examination thankfully proved wrong, so Jonathan shares with the hunter, “There is no sign of sexual assault.” The silence that follows could be cut with a knife. Geoffrey nods, shoulders gradually relaxing. He hadn’t even realised how much he dreaded that conclusion until Jonathan spoke. “Whoever did this, didn’t rape them.”

“It doesn’t make it okay, though,” Geoffrey mumbles.

“No, it doesn’t. But at least…” Jonathan begins, not really knowing how to articulate what he means. “At least weren’t hurt in that way, you know?”

“Yeah… No, I understand,” Geoffrey reassures him as they resume their walk towards the hospital’s front desk. Behind it, Nurse Branagan stops writing on a clipboard in order to greet them. When she notices Geoffrey’s presence, she does a double-take, but thankfully says nothing as Jonathan asks her to notify the police or whomever will take the bodies.

As he waits, Geoffrey wonders how many victims Jonathan has seen through his years of experience as a doctor. How many survivors. The doctor knew what he was looking for during his examination. The relief in his eyes was a sort Geoffrey is almost too familiar with. He has, after all, seen his fair share of victims himself. It never gets easier.

“Are you quite ready to go, Jonathan?” Geoffrey says when Jonathan steps away from the desk.

“Yeah,” Jonathan replies. He sounds distracted, but his face is all determination and Geoffrey thinks about reaching out. About comforting him. Instead, he asks:

“Should we go talk to that nut-head Whitaker then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it seems Geoffrey has a strange way of coping with horrible situations. He's definitely talkative. And this chapter, by the time I finished it, was almost 5k long, so I broke it into two, which means you can expect another chapter very soon 8D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and to Whitaker they go.

By the time they reach Whitaker, it’s already pretty late at night. The priest is still going at it at full volume, nevertheless, strained voice echoing through the empty streets.

“It has happened before and it will happen again! Heed my word that you might be saved!” Jonathan and Geoffrey trade a pained look as soon as they’re able to hear him, neither looking forward to a chat with the raging man. “Justice will be served! Sinners will be made to crawl!”

“Whitaker!” Geoffrey calls out when they reach him, pure authority weighing on his voice like a boulder and making Whitaker freeze.

“It’s _Father_ Whitaker,” he corrects the hunter, chin pointing up. “Have you come to atone for your sins, Mr. McCullum?”

“Not tonight, _Father_ ,” Geoffrey spits. He can almost _feel_ Jonathan’s surprise at his reaction, but he’s not about to explain his animosity towards Whitaker. As far as he’s concerned, the priest has it coming.

“There’s still hope for you, my son! Turn not your back on God’s light!” Whitaker persists, adding heat to Geoffrey’s boiling blood. Before the Irish can answer, though, he changes targets. “And you, Dr. Reid, are you still lost in your rational delusions?”

“Stop babbling, you lunatic!” Geoffrey intercedes, almost stepping between Jonathan and Whitaker before the doctor as much as opens his mouth. “Heard you’ve got some very concerning opinions on the women who were found at the docks. Come on, Whitaker, you’re always so quick to pass judgment… we’re actually _asking_ for you opinion this time.”

It’s all Geoffrey needs to say in order to get the priest fired up. And while somewhat apologetically explaining the motivations behind his mentions of the victims, he quickly escalates into a hateful speech about undeserving lifestyles and how this was divine retribution, justice, in his eyes.

It takes McCullum herculean force not to roll his eyes before he finishes speaking and he finds himself wondering on the back of his mind how _Father_ Whitaker would react if he were to, say, step a little closer to Jonathan, maybe put his arm around the doctor.

He never gets around to doing it, though, because Jonathan interrupts Whitaker’s endless rambling demanding to know where he was on Tuesday and Wednesday.

“I was right here, spreading God’s wisdom! Warning those weak of spirit!” Whitaker proudly says. “You can ask anyone! These are dark times, gentlemen, dark times indeed…”

“You can bet your ass we’re going to ask,” Geoffrey says and walks away before he loses his temper. He doesn’t know if he’s more angry at Whitaker for using such a horrible crime to spread his agenda or at himself for thinking the man would have anything useful to say.

Jonathan doesn’t leave as abruptly as Geoffrey, however, and jogs to catch up with the hunter on the steps in front of the church where Geoffrey pauses, unsure where to go next.

“Cristina Popa might be around here somewhere,” Jonathan suggests. “If anyone knows what’s happening around these streets day in and day out, it’s her…”

Geoffrey hesitates. He was really looking forward to calling it a night, but ends up saying, “Okay. Let’s go find her.”

As it is in Cristina Popa’s best interest to be easily spotted, it takes them almost no time at all to find her leaning against a wall, a half-burnt cigarette loosely held between her fingers. She looks them over as they approach, managing to look uninterested and flirty at the same time.

 “Oh, Dr. Reid,” she drawls. “What a surprise. And you brought company! That will cost you extra, but I guess could give you a discount. What do you say?”

Geoffrey’s face warms up and he chokes on his own breath. Jonathan, on the other hand, remains undisturbed and very softly responds, “We’re not looking for what you’re selling, Miss Popa. But I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

She sighs and puts out her smoke, saying, “Alright then, but be quick.” Shooting Geoffrey an unpleasant glare, she adds, “Though I usually get paid when I open my mouth.”

That’s the moment Geoffrey decides to leave Miss Popa to Jonathan even though the way she talks to the doctor makes a cold, ugly type of thing crawl inside his chest. Too knowingly, too teasing. Then again, he supposes Jonathan might get lonely more often than not and that is absolutely none of his business.

“Father Whitaker… do you know if he was here on Tuesday? Wednesday?” Jonathan asks, dragging Geoffrey’s thoughts back to the present.

“Oh, yeah… all day long,” Cristina replies with a long-suffering sigh. “Do you have any idea how bad he is for business? Not many sinners come my way with him ranting about hellfire and eternal damnation…”

“I bet,” Jonathan offers her a tight lipped smile, taking a step back. “Thank you for your time, Miss Popa.”

“I’ll be here if you change your mind, gentlemen,” she says. Geoffrey bites the inside of his cheek, tense from head to toe. “Two for one special. Just for you two, yeah?”

Geoffrey didn’t think his face could get any hotter, but it somehow does. He never knows how to act around women such as Popa. As they walk away, he mumbles, “I hate your friends.”

Jonathan snorts in surprise.

“She’s not my friend, though… more of an acquaintance, really,” he clarifies, voice soft with fondness over Geoffrey’s obvious discomfort. Just to tease the pinkness on the hunter’s cheeks, he adds, “ _You_ are my friend.”

“Oh, am I?” Geoffrey shoots back, definitely not wanting to examine too closely the reasons why Jonathan’s words comfort him. “That’s the friends and family special she was offering, then?”

“Don’t be crass,” Jonathan censures him, but he’s smiling a little. Geoffrey is getting quite used to the Ekon doing this, talking to him with this warm kind of exasperation in his voice, eyes soft on him when everything else around them requires their blood to remain cold.

Their feet find the way towards the West End without a word being said, the night far too advanced for Jonathan to do anything but go home. As they walk, Jonathan’s thoughts circle back to Gabrielle Arnaud and her family. He wonders if they were formally notified about her death or if they just heard it through the grapevine. He wonders if they are crying over the loss of their little girl or raging against the perverted leech who corrupted her.

He wonders if they had anything to do with what happened.

Morrison, on the other hand, had no close relatives to mourn her, no real friends around her. None alive, anyway. Maybe if Elisabeth were alive, they’d have a memorial service or something. As it is, her body will probably be burnt to avoid this cursed life finding its way into her again.

Absentmindedly, Jonathan wonders if this is the sort of fate that’s in store for him. Dying alone. No one to mourn him.

He’s certainly halfway there already. Then he glances at Geoffrey, walking by his side, filling the spaces Jonathan expected to remain vacant.

“What is it?” Geoffrey asks with a frown. Jonathan promptly looks away and the hunter insists, “You have a face.”

“I _do_ have a face, thank you for noticing. So unusual, isn’t it? Having a face,” Jonathan jokes, lips twisting in a smile that does not reach his eyes.

Geoffrey takes a second to answer, but when he does, the sarcasm scratches and burns against Jonathan’s ears, “Such a sophisticated sense of humour. I don’t know why I expected anything different…”

The hunter’s face closes off again and as they make their way through the familiar streets of Jonathan’s neighbourhood, the Ekon regrets his ill-timed joke, but knows not how to undo the damage.

“You think the family already knows? The Arnaud?” he wonders aloud as they approach his house. “You think they had something to do with it?”

Geoffrey considers the question.

“Killing the vamp, I wouldn’t put it past them…” Geoffrey considers, gradually slowing his steps as if he, just like Jonathan, is not ready to face his thought all by himself. “Imagine some beast seduces your little girl into running away? I can definitely understand putting a stake through their chest, but… Killing their own daughter?”

Jonathan doesn’t want to, but he comprehends. A forbidden love is never an easy thing to live, no matter who you are.

“There you are,” Geoffrey says they stop just short of the sidewalk in front of the Reid residence. “Home, safe and sound.”

Jonathan tries and fails not to feel like a helpless damsel being walked home through the dangerous London streets. When he looks at Geoffrey, though, he can’t find it in himself to be angry about it.

The hunter takes a step forward and Jonathan tries not to do the same, something cold inside him aching for the warmth of the hunter.

“I have a bad feeling, Jonathan,” Geoffrey admits in a whisper so soft Jonathan has to lean closer to hear him. Then closer still because he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He never expected to feel like this, this raw.

“We’ll find them,” Jonathan promises much more confidently than he feels. “Whoever did this. We’ll find them.”

Even as he says it, he is trying to convince himself of the truth behind his words.

“I know,” Geoffrey replies and he seems sincere, at least, so Jonathan believes in himself just a little bit more. In his eyes, though, there’s sadness so deep Jonathan almost doesn’t hear him wonder aloud, “Does it make it all right, though?”

Jonathan doesn’t answer. He feels just as lost as the first night he woke up to this cursed existence, but the hunger gnawing at the corners of his mind is of another kind.

He does not want to be alone. Not tonight. Safe as this life of solitude of his is, he can no longer stand it. And it must be evident, he thinks, because as soon as he whispers, “See you tomorrow, vampire hunter.” Geoffrey hugs him.

It’s casual. At least at first. Just one arm loosely draped over Jonathan’s shoulder and a few light pats at his back, but Jonathan melts into it, arms wrapping around the hunter as though the man would otherwise disappear.

It is only then that Jonathan realises how long it has been since he was last held by anyone. He chokes on his own breath, but Geoffrey probably thinks it’s just the whole situation getting to him. And it might be, but also... Geoffrey is so _warm_. He rubs his palms in comforting circles against Jonathan’s back in a gesture that’s almost brotherly, but it fills Jonathan’s stomach with something akin to hope, tentative and blind.

For a fleeting second, he almost believes everything will end up all right.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoffrey goes somewhere he isn't welcome. Jonathan worries.

“Where are you going, McCullum?” Horace’s question earns him a raised eyebrow as Geoffrey finishes strapping his gear on.

“Can’t a man do anything without notifying the authorities anymore?” Geoffrey’s answer does not discourage the other guard. On the contrary, Horace’s expression turns stern and he says:

“Johnson was looking for you earlier. We’re all kind of worried about you, you know?”

“About me? Haven’t you got enough work to do?” Geoffrey shoots back, aiming for light-hearted but missing by a mile, throat too tight, frown too deep. He forces a grin onto his face and spreads his arms as if he has nothing to hide. “Do I really need to tell you lot to mind your own business?”

Horace doesn’t buy his act, but it makes no difference because Geoffrey leaves within the next minute. It’s still the middle of the afternoon, his stomach heavy with the lunch he had with his men, and the day is beautiful, bright and cool. It makes the unpleasant mission he is on all the worse.

It takes him some time, but he eventually finds which rundown building the rejects from the Priwen Guard are occupying this season. They move around so much they’re almost impossible to track down. To make things worse, they mostly stay out of the guard’s way, moving silently around town to take down whomever they consider to be working against their cause, vampire or not.

As soon as he is close enough to be heard through the boarded-up windows of the ancient apartment building in front of him, Geoffrey yells, “Anderson! It’s McCullum! I need to speak with you!”

A curious face pops into one of the windows, unpleasant smirk slowly spreading across thin lips.

“Look who’s decided to show up at our corner of the world, gentlemen,” Anderson, greying blond hair sticking out in all directions, yells back out to the empty courtyard. “Geoffrey fucking McCullum! Never thought I’d see the day... come on in, come on up!”

Geoffrey is not deceived by the lightness on Anderson’s tone, however. He enters through the door that pops open on the first floor, but the man who opens it doesn’t follow him and he is then left to find Anderson on his own.

Muscles coiled tight as if expecting to be jumped at any second, Geoffrey enters an open door on the third floor, saying, “I am not here to pick a fight.” It’s as much of a warning as it is a peace offering, even if it turns his stomach. There are three men inside the office other than Anderson, pistols ready to be drawn. They share a look of disbelief as their leader asks:

“Are you sure about that? We heard you’ve been getting pretty cosy with that blood-sucker, the fancy doctor.”

Geoffrey lets out a curse as a fourth man he hadn’t spotted grabs him from behind. Things blur out a little as he struggles and gets punched in the face for his trouble.

If anything, instead of quieting him down, the punch gets him fighting harder. He ends up with three men holding him against the wall as he spits blood onto the floor, nose completely clogged but hopefully not broken.

Brilliant fuckin idea, coming here alone, he thinks before snarling, “You fucking arseholes, I’m just here to talk!”

“Then fucking talk,” Anderson spits, breathing laboured even though he hasn’t lifted a single finger. “Let go of that piece of shit, lads. You don’t want to get your hands dirty…”

The men hesitate before letting Geoffrey go. It physically hurts not to throw a punch or two at them, but Geoffrey has other priorities, such as a nose that is bleeding like it is getting paid for it.

“The girls in the canal,” Geoffrey says, voice muffled as he pinches his nose. Anderson’s face lights up. He looks nothing like the young man who joined the guard so many years ago, his beard and hair now unkempt, face almost as dirty as his clothes. The insane glint in his eyes, though… that’s still the same.

“ _Beautiful_ thing, wasn’t it? Just what they deserved, the unworthy lot of them…” He singsongs. “Traitor of her own kind and a blood-sucking aberration…”

Even as he was making his way there, Geoffrey found it hard to even conceive of men who were once in the guard being capable of such a heinous crime. Now, however, he believes he rather underestimated their fanaticism.

“You seem rather proud,” Geoffrey points out. Anderson shrugs, moving around to sit on top of his desk.

“Oh, but we can’t really take credit for it. Unfortunately,” Anderson adds as two of the other men leave the room. The remaining two still have their eyes fixed on Geoffrey. “As I’m sure you remember, that’s not _our_ area. The Wet Boot Boys run that part of town. Though, if you’re ever able to catch up with whatever _artist_ did this... make sure you convey our admiration. Fucking masterpiece, eh, guys?”

The men around hum in agreement and Geoffrey feels sick.

“You’re… despicable,” he grunts. Anderson makes a face.

“Oh, you were pretty clear about what you thought of me when you kicked me out of the guard,” he spits back. “You wanna know what _I_ think of you, McCullum? I think you got soft. You lost your way. You and those pansies you call guards.”

Geoffrey grits his teeth. He may have lost many things through the years, but his sense of right and wrong is as sharp as ever and this? Is wrong.

Anderson seems to be done talking, because gets off his desk and says, “Get out of here before I forget to show you any mercy.” He moves to the window, turning his back on Geoffrey, and adds, “Go. Get the _fuck_ out.”

The tremor on his last sentence tells Geoffrey how close Anderson is to snapping and another thing that remains as sharp as ever in Geoffrey is his ability to recognise when to tuck his fucking tail between his legs and scurry away. He has no idea how many men are in the building or what Anderson is really capable of, so he goes. Back to the headquarters under the mid-afternoon sun. When he goes into the kitchens to find something to eat before getting ready for the night, Johnson is sitting at the table with a faraway look on his acne-covered face.

“What are you doing down here, boy?” Geoffrey asks, startling the rookie, who rolls his eyes at him after realising who it is. He knows for sure his patrol group was working until noon. Johnson should be sleeping.

“I was waiting for you, sir,” he replies. “You said we would talk in the morning, but we never did. And Horace said you were going to the rejects.”

“Those bastards… pretty efficient way to fuck up my day, if you ask me.” Geoffrey complains, throwing himself into a chair. He feels like dying. “Is there any tea?”

Johnson nods, standing up.

“Yeah, I just made some. I’ll pour you a cup.”

“Johnson, you have to stop doing that,” Geoffrey says as the rookie adds some sugar to a mug before filling it up with steaming hot tea. “I know you want to be kind, offering me tea, but you keep acting like that they’ll figure you out.”

“Would that be so bad?” Johnson wonders, handing him the mug with a sour expression. “I’m getting tired of hiding.”

Geoffrey sniffs his mug, the smell comforting enough for him to feel himself relax already.

“I worry about you,” he admits between one sip and another.

“Yeah. Horace says the same thing,” Johnson replies, sitting back down a little harder than the ideal and spilling some tea of his own on the wooden surface. Geoffrey stares at the stain. “‘This is no life for you’, he says. But what else will I do? I lost my entire family to those fucking… how else will I honour their memory?”

“Live a good life. Find yourself a good man. Or woman. I don’t care.” Geoffrey suggests. “This… this _really_ is no life for you.”

“‘Cause that’s all a woman can do, right? Get hitched and pop out a few babies…” Johnson frowns at his mug. “I have wrath in my veins, McCullum. Just like you do. Stop underestimating me.”

Geoffrey sets his empty mug down.

“That’s not what I’m doing. At all,” Geoffrey offers, but that is as far as he is willing to go with this discussion. “Go get some sleep. We might need you when night comes.”

-x-

In the early evening, Geoffrey spends a couple of hours with Johnson and a few cadets discussing the rejects problem and their most recent activities. He really believes that if they were responsible for the crime he and Reid are investigating, they would have no problem owning up to it, the bunch of psychopaths.

When he finally gets to Jonathan’s house, ha has to face an annoyed doctor who blankly states:

“You’re late.”

But Geoffrey’s day as been difficult enough that he snaps at Jonathan before he can think twice, grunting, “Yeah? I’ve got a lot on my place other than running around doing the job of the police.” Jonathan frown at him, surprised by the harshness of his tone. “Don’t you have stuff to do at the hospital?”

Jonathan shrugs, posture relaxing slightly in sympathy to Geoffrey’s anxious appearance.

“Not really. They have… ceded me to the investigation,” Jonathan says, falling into step with Geoffrey as they walk out onto the street. “Since Strickland took over the director’s office, I’ve been regarded as less than essential… are you sure you’re okay?”

“That’s rough. Not a fan of yours, is he?” Geoffrey deflects, eyes roaming around them, everywhere but at Jonathan. “I just need to get something to eat and we’ll be good. I have a hunch Joe Peterson might have something to tell us…”

Jonathan nods. He’s been thinking the same thing.

Jonathan glances back at his house and offers, “Okay. Do you want to go inside, then? I can get Avery to make you something.”

“No, I don’t want you to have your fucking butler make me something…” Geoffrey groans. “That’s ridiculous.”

Jonathan takes a calming breath and, stopping the other man by grabbing him by the sleeve of his jacket, demands, “Geoffrey, talk to me.” Closer as they are now, Jonathan finally smells what is off. Blood. It’s not fresh, but it’s there. He immediately lets go and takes a step back. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” Geoffrey deflects again, trying to move away, but Jonathan is right there in his way saying:

“I can _smell_ it.” Geoffrey looks at him in confusion. Jonathan bares his fangs at him. “Your blood. You were hurt today and I want to know what happened. Did you go talk to the rejects?”

Geoffrey rolls his eyes like an impertinent child before begrudgingly admitting, “Yes, I did, Jonathan. Got punched in the face for it, as a matter of fact. Can we move on?”

Geoffrey tries to walk away, but Jonathan grabs him again.

“What? Why?” He asks.

Geoffrey doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at Jonathan, who moves in close enough so that Geoffrey has no choice other than to look at him or close his eyes. Behind his dark gaze, there is a storm taking form. Darkly, Jonathan asks, “What did you find out?”

“They weren’t involved,” Geoffrey says with a grimace, unsure if he wanted the rejects to be the culprits or not. “But they are _great_ fans of the handiwork. Called it a masterpiece, even.”

“What? That’s…”

“Sick, right?” Geoffrey says, bitter with sarcasm, but it quickly turns into a lament as he admits, “I don’t even know what to do about it, honestly… never imagined expelling them from the Guard would create such a horrid faction.”

“Not your fault,” Jonathan quickly says, laying a comforting hand on Geoffrey. It almost works, were it not for the certainty that it is Geoffrey’s fault, at least a bit. Mind made up, Jonathan says, “Come with me, then. There’s a restaurant I really like on the next block. I haven’t been there in quite some time, but if their food is anything like I remember...”

Geoffrey just stares at him like he is a particularly tough nut to crack. With a gentle nudge at the hunter’s elbow, Jonathan adds:

“My treat.”

Barely believing his ears, Geoffrey’s answer is teasing, “Feeling generous, Dr. Reid?” He considers saying no. He can pay for his own meals, thank you very much. But he is way too hungry to be stubborn, so he lets out an aggravated sigh and says, “Alright. Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, as I said, the updates are going to be a bit less frequent now, but they will keep coming :)  
> hope you guys are doing fine!  
> also, I'm back on tumblr:
> 
> itsalwayssunnyintaubate.tumblr.com
> 
> also: next chapter we have the food porn I've been promising ;)


	7. Chapter 7

There’s this little red door just at the at the edge of West End that Geoffrey had never paid much attention other than to wonder why would anyone need that many flowers. As he approaches the place right beside Jonathan, he can’t help but feel taunted by the unkempt canopy of flowers, fragrant and dark red against the equally dark night.

Behind the wooden door, a waiter in a crisp uniform, who Jonathan greets by name, takes their coats and leads them to a table.

“Oh, I feel underdressed…” Geoffrey finds himself saying, but it’s not totally true. The place is dark enough for him to feel comfortable, almost sleepy, and the building itself does not seem to have been designed to become a restaurant, small tables scattered around with mismatched chairs that shouldn’t be, but are very charming.

A small and private smile grazing his lips, Jonathan whispers back, “You’re fine…”

And he means it. He expected more of a fight from Geoffrey when he suggested they come here, but he is happy to have the hunter with him in such a familiar setting. Before he left for war, he used to come here all the time.

Looking back, he can’t really remember what was the last time. One of those uncomfortable dates Mary insisted on sending him on? Their mother’s birthday, the last one they celebrated, so long ago? He can’t say for sure, but one thing he knows. He was happy, the last time he came here. Not that he isn’t now, with the careful glances Geoffrey keeps shooting him, but he is now sullied by a darkness he knew nothing of before.

As they sit, Jonathan is brought back from his memories by Geoffrey commenting, “I don’t think I can afford this place.”

Around them, a few couples and small groups of friends and family eat and drink quietly whispering among themselves, indifferent to them.

“It’s a good thing you’re not paying, then,” Jonathan says as their waiter returns with menus. Jonathan waves a hand at them and dismissively says, “We’ll have the lamb.”

“What?” Geoffrey mumbles in confusion.

Jonathan considers him for what feels like an eternity. With a wink, he says, “Trust me.”

And, well, it’s true that this night could have gone a lot of different ways, but this is not something Geoffrey expected when he left the headquarters: having dinner with a leech. That and the weird fluttering in his chest that steals his ability to find a comeback.

The waiter, convincingly polite, asks, “And to drink?”

Geoffrey would go with whisky. It’s cold enough that his body will appreciate it, but Jonathan speaks first, “Some red wine. Bordeaux?”

The waiter nods one more time, saying, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

 “How hungry are you?” Jonathan asks before Geoffrey can say anything else.

“Well, I haven’t really eaten since early afternoon, so…”

Jonathan seems satisfied with his answer, because he says, “Good. You’ll have to eat for the two of us.”

Geoffrey is smiling to himself when the waiter returns with their glasses of wine. Jonathan stares longingly at the dark liquid.

“Are you trying to fatten me up, Reid?” Geoffrey asks with a smirk. Jonathan raises his glass and Geoffrey follows him. As their glasses clink together, he teases:

“Can’t I just spoil you without some hidden agenda?” And it’s his choice of words, the mischievous glint in his eyes, the lazy smirk on his lips, that sends a rush of adrenaline through Geoffrey’s body. He should have said no, he realises. He should have found a random bar and paid for any food they had instead of coming here to sit in front of this man with the too knowing, too hungry eyes. It’s off-putting, being the sole center of Jonathan’s attention like this.

Jonathan lifts the glass to his nose and breathes it in, lips parting in helpless desire. The Ekon wants to drown in the richness of the wine, but knows he can’t. So he takes in the aroma, a bit metallic, earthy and rich, and stares like a starving man as Geoffrey takes a small, measured sip, eyebrows immediately shooting up as whatever brought that frown onto his face vanishes from his thoughts.

“Is it good?” Jonathan asks, barely recognising his own voice, too husky, too anxious for approval. Geoffrey licks his lips, a flash of pink tongue, and Jonathan clenches a fist. “Do you like it?”

He wants to taste the darkness of the bordeaux on Geoffrey’s tongue.

“It’s delicious,” Geoffrey replies, moving in for a more generous sip, mouth working around the flavours as his face heats up under Jonathan’s scrutiny.

Jonathan takes a deep breath. Clears his throat. Adds, “Glad you like it.”

As Jonathan sets his own glass down, Geoffrey purses his lips. Asks, “You really can’t drink at all?” Jonathan shakes his head. “Not even a sip?”

“I can… _taste_ it,” Jonathan explains as he does just that, lifting the glass to his mouth and allowing the liquid to graze his lips. It is barely a sip at all, but the flavours explode inside his mouth in a way he had not anticipated. He is so distracted by the intensity of it he doesn’t notice the way Geoffrey is staring at his mouth like he has just discovered something massive. Jonathan sighs, staring wistfully into his glass. “But I guess… it’s better for the two of us if I don’t get into the habit of indulging myself too much and… giving into temptation.”

Geoffrey nods, not sure at all what they’re talking about. As Jonathan abandons his wine, their eyes meet.

“Might be tough,” Geoffrey thinks out loud. “Resisting.”

The hunter covers his words and the embarrassment thick inside his chest with a sip of wine. He’s right, Jonathan thinks.

Resisting _is_ tough. It’s always tough. When earlier Jonathan felt the scent of Geoffrey’s dried blood in the air, it took everything in him not to sink his fangs into the hunter’s flesh. It would have been so easy, too, Geoffrey so filled with his frustrations and grievances he wouldn’t have noticed what was happening until it was too late. Until Jonathan’s mouth was filled with his blood, life slowly draining from the hunter’s body as the hunger took over him.

There’s another hunger, however, that Jonathan has been feeling as of late. A hunger that has very little to do with blood and a lot to do with Geoffrey.

“Wine is not the worst temptation on my plate, as I’m sure you understand…” Jonathan quips, wondering if Geoffrey’s blood would taste sweeter with the alcohol swimming in is body. He licks his lips, tasting the last traces of the wine, and hoarsely whispers, “But, yeah, this is… good wine.”

Geoffrey nods in agreement. The table they are sitting at feels smaller than it was a few minutes ago as they unconsciously lean towards one another, eyes searching each other’s faces for signs they are not used to looking for.

“Pardon me for interrupting,” The waiter says as he approaches their table with two hot plates. Geoffrey jumps in surprise, bumping his leg against Jonathan’s under the table.

“Thank you,” the Ekon says as their food is set, eyes narrowing as if it has somehow offended him. The waiters steps away and Jonathan risks a glance at Geoffrey, “It sure smells enticing…”

It is Jonathan’s turn to feel like coming here was a bad idea. He remembers the food being very good, but this is ridiculous. On their plates, racks of lamb bleed their juices onto soft mashed potatoes and roasted mushrooms. Jonathan can smell rosemary and thyme, butter and cumin, black pepper and his mouth feels… _empty_.

Geoffrey fusses with his knife and fork for a second before cutting into his food and says, “I feel almost bad for eating in front of you…” Then he takes a bite. He lets out a moan that has Jonathan biting his lower lip and immediately corrects himself, “No, scratch that, I don’t feel bad at all. This is… amazing.”

Jonathan sighs. He doesn’t mean to, but can’t help but track every single movement Geoffrey makes. A piece of mushroom pierced by a fork and a bit of mashed potatoes stained with the juices of the lamb find its way into the hunter’s mouth and Jonathan could die a happy death at this moment.

As Geoffrey chews, very obviously enjoying everything, Jonathan comments, “They almost closed during the epidemic.” He is hopelessly trying to find something to say, to do, other than to look at and starve for this man. “This place. People weren’t going out to eat anymore, supplies were scarce…”

Geoffrey swallows and takes a hearty gulp from his wine.

“Thank God they didn’t close…” He says with a dry chuckle. Jonathan doesn’t laugh. “You’re staring,” Geoffrey manages to say after a few minutes pass.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor says and he is, but he can’t stop.

Geoffrey tells himself that the warmth on his face comes from the wine and hot food, but he is not that good at lying to himself. Not when he keeps bumping into Jonathan’s legs under the table, keeps forgetting how to breathe, how to sit like a normal person.

When he’s almost done with his food, which almost makes him feel sad, Jonathan switches their plates in a swift movement. He looks around impishly as if making sure no one’s looking, which earns him a chuckle from Geoffrey. He didn’t need to, though. No one is looking at them, in this dark, warm place, and Geoffrey starts to feel a bit reckless.

“You weren’t kidding about spoiling me…” he throws Jonathan’s words back at him, face still flushed bright. Jonathan just leans on an elbow and lazily looks over as his companion cuts into his new dish while saying, “You know those moments when you first experience something you just sort of _know_ you’ll always crave?”

Jonathan nods, Geoffrey’s words ringing more true than the hunter could ever know. Jonathan stretches a leg under the table, bumping into Geoffrey, but neither of them move away.

“ _This_ is one of those moments. You have officially ruined me, Jonathan,” Geoffrey melodramatically says as he drinks the last of his wine. “I _knew_ you were a bad influence all along, now I’ll go bankrupt over food.”

Jonathan grins, very obviously proud of himself, and lifts his own glass to his mouth one more time. Lips still tingling with sensation, he pushes his glass forward and, as if asking a favour, says, “Finish my wine?”

“Oh, since you _insist_ …” Geoffrey obliges, sipping from Jonathan’s glass before going back to his food, leaving the Ekon to stare helplessly at the glass, at the twin marks of their mouths. “You don’t have to get me drunk, you know?”

Jonathan looks at Geoffrey, thinking he might be drunk himself because all of his eloquence abandons him. “Sorry?” he says.

“I said: you don’t have to get me drunk,” Geoffrey repeats and, with a defeated gesture, elaborates, “I already _like_ you, Jonathan, despite knowing fully well that I really shouldn’t.”

He is speaking platonically. Jonathan knows that. He knows that and still Geoffrey’s words make him want to reach over and lick the wine and blood from his lips.

Jonathan lowers his gaze, instead. Things are becoming too intense, too fast for his liking. He needs to be able to think about these things _before_ acting, but he did not expect to feel this way about Geoffrey.

The silence that reigns while the hunter finishes his food, however, is not an uncomfortable one. When the waiter takes the plates and glasses away, he asks if everything was all right. Geoffrey can’t really go any further than ‘good’ with his inner glutton singing with joy. No dessert for them. Just the check, thank you.

“We still have work to do,” Geoffrey reminds Jonathan, his words making the cold streets outside bleed into their cocoon.

Jonathan is still smiling as he reaches for his wallet. Handing the money over, he tells the waiter, “It was perfect. Thank you, Gordon.”

They are moving more slowly than usual as they stand up, laziness from the meal and hesitation to go back to the real world staggering their movements as they put their coats back on. But Jonathan boldly leaves his hand on the small of Geoffrey’s back when they exit. That doesn’t require any effort at all.

The warm light from inside the restaurant bleeds onto the pavement for a second before the door closes behind them. Jonathan pauses, hand pressing down against Geoffrey’s back as if to make itself known.

This time, Geoffrey doesn’t complain about Jonathan’s touch. On the contrary, he moves a bit closer. Jonathan can smell the wine in his breath.

“I thought about turning you, you know,” Jonathan blurts out before he can think better of it. Geoffrey barely reacts other than a raised eyebrow, a confused glint in his eyes. Jonathan elaborates in a whisper, leaning in to be heard, to be closer, he’s not sure, “Back at the hospital. When we fought. When I had you on your knees, I thought about turning you.”

It’s something else, what he wants to convey. Geoffrey eyes seem to penetrate the depths of Jonathan’s thoughts, but what he manages to say is, “Bullshit.”

It’s almost a challenge, the way he says it. Gravely, Jonathan nods.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” Geoffrey says, matter-of-factly. “I would have killed you.”

But he doesn’t move away. If anything, he comes closer, turning so that they’re standing face to face.

“Well, you had already tried that, if you don’t remember,” Jonathan teases him. Then his gaze changes into something less gleeful and more thoughtful, considering. He licks his lips, unsure, the hand on Geoffrey’s lower back turning heavier, more possessive, the longer the hunter allows himself to be touched. Jonathan adds, “It was out of spite, though. That I thought about it. But I… I think you might have enjoyed taking part in this cursed existence…”

The look on Geoffrey’s face is almost dreamy, as if he is really thinking about it. About something, anyway.

“Can you imagine that?” Geoffrey wonders aloud, accent heavy around every syllable and a nasty smirk that Jonathan wants to kiss right off his lips. He leans in as if to tell a secret and Jonathan can almost taste him, “I’d be the greatest vampire hunter ever. Your worst enemy, in fact.”

That startles a bark of a laugh out of Jonathan and Geoffrey looks awfully proud of himself. Proud of making Jonathan laugh. The Ekon is a second away from throwing caution to the wind and risking taking a fist to the face just to feel Geoffrey’s lips against his when he hears a familiar voice exclaiming, “Oi, Johnny! I can’t believe you’re here!”

Jonathan frowns, the moment shattering right in front of him. Geoffrey turns towards the street as the doctor does the same, frustration burning white-hot in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh,” Jonathan says, finally recognising the couple walking towards them. His frown deepens in confusion, “Clarence. Venus. Date night?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta-read. sorry, guys. i apologize in advance for any slips. let me know if you find anything weird.  
> also, i hope that's enough food porn for you <3  
> (not i'm hungry)


	8. Chapter 8

Awkward doesn’t begin to cover what it felt like for Geoffrey to meet Jonathan’s friends. He can practically hear the worlds clashing as the woman raises an eyebrow and she looks him up and down. He very pointedly hangs back as Jonathan trades pleasantries with them, but he hears it. The tense, stuttered way Jonathan speaks. Geoffrey likes to think that these past few days he has gained some insight into what the Ekon sounds like when he’s comfortable. And when he laughs. And when he’s worried.

It’s not like Geoffrey hopes to make small talk to Jonathan’s posh friends, but he didn’t expect the doctor to clam up like that.

Geoffrey takes another step back for good measure, eyes roaming around the mostly empty street. He can still hear voices from the restaurant behind them. He longs for what he left inside there with such visceral urgency he can barely breathe.

He might as well go ahead and shoot himself in the face, recklessly falling for a fucking _blood-sucker_ after all these years. His stomach feels tight, his head light with realisation, with adrenaline and that smooth and warm, light and heavy feeling inside his ribs. He sets his open hand against his own chest because surely he should be able to feel how fast his heart is beating.

Geoffrey is brought back to reality by a hand on his arm and Jonathan’s voice, pitched low and concerned as he asks, “Ready to go?”

Geoffrey nods, turning his face away a second too late. Jonathan sees it, the disturbance right below the surface, even though he has no ways of knowing what the source of it is.

“Whitechapel?” Geoffrey suggests, voice tight with all the things he’s holding back. “If we’re lucky, we might find Joe Peterson. He’s sure to have some information.”

Jonathan nods, albeit somewhat unsure. His hand tightens and then falls away from it’s graps on Geoffrey’s arm as they turn to walk. “Why Peterson again?” He asks.

“He was at the docks, remember?” Geoffrey says. That and what he heard in the afternoon got him thinking that maybe the terrible blood-sucking beasts that haunt the night aren’t the ones responsible for this terrible crime. That maybe – just _maybe_ – this came from the other side. The human side. The one he’s been protecting for so long.

He’s not about to tell Jonathan that, however.

“I remember, of course, but…” Jonathan’s frown deepens. He thought they had dismissed the Wet Boot Boys. “You don’t think that he…?”

Geoffrey shakes his head.

“No, Jon. I don’t. Not him, but… listen, he keeps the wrong sort of company around as _everybody_ knows.” As he speaks, Geoffrey’s eyes grow sharper, all lethargy from their meal falling away from him. “Mark my words: he knows something.”

And it’s not as if Jonathan has an alternative plan. As they walk, Geoffrey tells him about his meeting with the rejects. As soon as he’s finished, though, they’re standing right outside Peterson’s home, so Jonathan never has the chance to respond to what Geoffrey tells him, to clarify things or just reprimand him for putting himself in a dangerous position.

The mere thought, however, has Jonathan’s chest tightening in anger.

Indifferent to his companion’s anguish, Geoffrey knocks on the door. After a few seconds, the suspicious face of Harry, Joe’s son, appears as the door opens.

“Is your father home, lad?” Geoffrey asks, peeking over the boys head to try and get a look at inside the house.

“What do you want with him?” Harry glares. “He just came home from work! He has a job now! _What do you want with him_?!”

“Whoa, Harry, calm down. It’s all right!” Jonathan pushes forward and Harry seem to relax a bit at his less intimidating stance. “We just need to talk to him… Can you get him for us?”

Harry hesitates, but eventually opens the door for them to step inside, excusing himself in order to go find his father. Joe Peterson, when he comes, looks every bit as worn-out and shady as he used to and the fact that he sends Harry away and starts defending himself before Jonathan and Geoffrey even have a chance to ask him any questions does not really help his case.

“I cut all ties with the gang, I’m telling you!” He says. “I’m working at the docks, now. I’ve got a legit job, okay? I’m no longer their muscle!”

“Is that why you were at the docks that day?” Jonathan inquires.

“I swear on my son’s life, doctor. I was just coming home from work when I saw all the ruckus,” Peterson says, darkly. “I’m still having nightmares about it.”

“Well, you’re not the only one,” Jonathan allows to escape.

Geoffrey shoots him a weary look and pushes, “Well, we’re stuck here, Peterson. So you’d better help us out before anyone else gets hurt.”

Jonathan almost rolls his eyes at that. “You haven’t by any chance heard anything?” He adds in a less threatening tone.

Peterson makes a face, but admits, “You know what? I have. I’ll tell you everything I know, but you have to promise to leave my name out of it.” He glares at Geoffrey. “I _don’t_ want anything to do with those guys anymore.”

“Of course, you have our word,” Jonathan rushes to say, catching Geoffrey’s nod from the corner of his eye.

“Well, there’s this group occupying the sewers north of here,” Peterson says, pitching his voice so low the other two have to lean forward to hear him. “They were going on and on about how one of them had put a bitch who rejected him in her rightful place.”

“Right…” Jonathan says. “I don’t suppose you know who this man is.”

“Look, that’s everything I know, okay? That’s all I heard,” Peterson replies, crossing his arms. “Will you leave me be now? I have things to do.”

“At this hour?” Geoffrey inquires, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“I have to go see Lewis, alright? Been trying to make up for how badly I fucked him over,” Peterson explains. Jonathan is surprised that he is being so open, but the man elaborates, “I’m tired of being the arsehole, okay? I could use some forgiveness. Me and my boy.”

Low enough that Harry, wherever he is, does not hear them, Jonathan asks, “How is Harry, by the way?”

“He’s… he’s doing alright. Thanks for asking,” Peterson replies, posture relaxing a little. “May I go now?”

“Sure. Send Lewis my regards,” Geoffrey says as they exit the house ahead of the other man. As Peterson walks away from them, unhappy scowls permanently etched onto his face, Geoffrey says, “Lewis is never going to forgive him.”

“Well, it’s not like Lewis has much of a leg to stand on,” Jonathan responds before he can think better of it. Geoffrey grabs onto that instantly.

“What do you mean?” He demands. Jonathan pauses, hesitating, but this is Geoffrey and it can’t hurt to share the information.

“Well, Lewis had an affair with Harry’s mother, you see.” Geoffrey’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m pretty sure the boy is his son.”

Geoffrey reaction, when it comes, is not what Jonathan was expecting. “You’re worse than those old ladies from church, Jonathan. Such a gossip,” he remarks with a teasing grin before schooling himself into a more serious posture. “But, seriously, we should check those sewers… good thing I already ate.”

Jonathan snorts.

-x-

Once inside the sewers, it takes them almost three hours to come across any sign of life that aren’t rats or the eventual rogue Skal, but, when they do, Jonathan finds himself wishing they hadn’t.

He pulls Geoffrey with him into the shadows when they hear voices nearby and approaching footsteps.

“Even the leech was sort of cute, I guess,” a male voice says.

“Cute? She was smoking hot,” another one replies. He cackles before adding, “A little too ripe for my taste, but beggars can’t be choosers, am I right?”

Geoffrey goes tense beside Jonathan, getting ready to charge at the men, but the Ekon’s hand on his back and his very bright eyes pleading for him to wait are enough to stop him.

“Shut your face, Norton. What the fuck is wrong with you?” A third voice intervenes. The steps are getting closer. “That’s why McNamara doesn’t come around anymore.”

“He doesn’t come around because he’s afraid of getting caught!” The first man pipes in. Geoffrey moves next do Jonathan, readying his crossbow. The sound of a bolt sliding into position echoes around. “What was that?”

Jonathan sighs, longsuffering, and steps out of the shadows. With their cover blown, combat is inevitable. Geoffrey takes an offensive stance as Jonathan moves to cover him.

“A fucking leech!” A small dirty man yells as he pulls a knife and moves towards Jonathan. The Ekon jumps to the side, easily evading the attack. He considers draining the man’s blood, after all, he _does_ need to feed, but he really doesn’t want to put his mouth on… _that_. So he raises his open hand into the air and watches as all the blood inside the man’s body freezes for an instant, rivulets of it flowing through the air. Geoffrey takes the opportunity to slam the man’s head against the wall, turning his crossbow towards the rest of them after.

“I’ll kill you!” The one called Norton screams, but he is looking at Geoffrey, not at Jonathan, which is the last mistake he gets to make tonight.

Jonathan sweeps Norton’s legs with one graceful movement and braces himself to sink his fangs on his unconscious form when Geoffrey suddenly calls out, “Jonathan!”

Jonathan lifts his eyes just in time to see the blade coming towards him, but not in time to dodge it. Cold sharp metal slices through his upper arm as he rolls to the side, snarling in pain. The scent of his own blood explodes into the air, taking the hunger that tormented him to a whole new level.

In a blur of shadow and fury, Jonathan flies towards his attacker, quickly dragging the man into submission as he drinks from him. The blade, stained red with Jonathan’s blood, clatters on the floor just as the Ekon reels back, stopping himself just short of completely draining the man.

Jonathan shakes his head, trying to clear the buzz, and lets Norton fall silently to the floor. It’s always like this. Every fucking time. He loves and hates it in equal measures, the way his entire body lights up.

“Get away from him or I’ll shoot!” Geoffrey warns, bringing Jonathan back to the real world with a startle. Geoffrey is not talking to him, Jonathan realises a second later, but to the last of their attackers, who now approaches Jonathan with a dagger in his hands.

Jonathan frowns. That’s not a threat, he thinks as he licks his lips. He can see it in the lad’s eyes, too young and spooked to do anything but survive.

“Don’t shoot, Geoffrey!” Jonathan says, taking a step towards the boy. He can’t be more than eighteen and it’s easy enough to disarm him, leaving him cowering against the wall. Without taking his eyes off the boy, Jonathan tells Geoffrey, “We need some answers.”

“Okay, okay… I’ll talk,” the boy says, raising both hands in surrender. “Just… don’t kill me.”

“What’s your name?” Jonathan demands.

“Pieter, sir. Pieter Nowak.”

“Pieter. Who were they talking about?” Jonathan asks. They’re getting warmer, he thinks, and knows without having to look that Geoffrey agrees with him. He can hear the hunter’s expectant breathing, his heartbeat louder than anything else around them. “A man named McNamara?”

Nowak lowers his eyes and does not look very happy when he says, “Oh, he’s… he’s part of our operation, you know? Not very important, but…”

“Why is he afraid of getting caught?” Geoffrey asks.

Jonathan raises a hand as if he is about to either touch the hunter or stop him from getting any closer, but he does neither as they wait for Nowak to say, “Because of the murder.” Nowak blinks nervously. “He… he went after them. The girls. He wanted the Arnaud chick. Went crazy the first time he laid eyes on her…”

“Were they together?” Geoffrey asks. Nowak shakes his head with an incredulous look in his eyes.

“No. No way. Cute girl like that? She is from a good family, sir. Was. She rejected him. She… she didn’t like what he was offering, you see. And even if she did, I don’t think she would have gone for him…” Nowak’s eyes darken, then, and if Jonathan were not so focused on unveiling what really happened, he would feel sorry for the boy. “He changed, after that.”

“How so?” Jonathan asks.

“I… I don’t know how to explain.” Nowak lowers his eyes, clearly uncomfortable. “He’s always been a little odd, I suppose, but, man, he went completely nuts after he was rejected, you know? He kept going after her, raving about how she couldn’t trade him for another chick. That he would not _let_ her and he… he started to become more and more violent when working with us. It was… scary to watch.”

The darkness of these days is everywhere, Jonathan knows.

In the corners of the sewers, on every street they walk through. It is inside him. In the hunger that still haunts him, even when he has just fed, in the grief and guilt that eats him alive night after night. It is in how much he longs to reach out and touch Geoffrey, but stops himself because he hears the same darkness in the hunter’s voice as he asks, “Where can we find this McNamara?”

And, then, there is light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know I made you guys wait for the last update so this one is coming out right now even though I haven't had the chance to REALLY revise it (but if I were going to, it would take me a week to consider it finished - sorry). So if you find anything remarkably weird or wrong anywhere in the text and want to drop me a line, I'll be immensely thankful! Don't be shy!  
> ...  
> But at least it's an update, right? *hides away*  
> Almost a double feature!  
> And we have two more chapters to go, so, brace yourselves!  
> (along with next chapter, I'll update this one with a better revised version, I swear - shh)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, they go after McNamara...

“It’s so fucked up,” Geoffrey says, blinking in confusion as he tries to make sense of what he’s feeling. He’s standing next to Jonathan across the street from where the infamous McNamara lives, an increasing sense of fatality rising in both their chests. There’s an empty flowerbed under a window where a faint light can be seen. Inside, a man sings to himself. “This _is_ the house. The house of our killer. But it doesn’t look like a killer’s house, does it?”

Jonathan tears his eyes away from the building to look at Geoffrey. _So many things are not what they seem_ , he thinks. Always one thing or another, lurking right below the surface. The small house with the killer right inside. The breath-taking smile the brave vampire hunter hides behind that grave face of his. The all-devouring desire that is shifting inside Jonathan’s chest, eclipsing even the hunger that has taken so much from him already.

“What is a killer’s house supposed to look like?” Jonathan ponders. Geoffrey shrugs, unaware of the heated gaze of his companion.

“I don’t know,” he replies, handsome face twisting into a scowl as he strains to listen. “Can you hear that? Is he really fucking singing?”

Jonathan goes back to focusing on the house.

“Yes,” he replies with a frown. “I can’t make out the words, though. Let’s get closer.”

Their feet sound too loud against the dry cobblestone and every step they take makes their hearts sink further inside their chests.

“It’s a sailing tune,” Jonathan says. It makes him think of the ropes that tied the girls together and he swallows with a dark, twisted fear in his chest. He thinks of the knots, so hard to undo.

“Lowlands, right?” Geoffrey asks, lost somewhere between nostalgia and disgust. Low enough that Jonathan has to strain to hear him, voice dark like smoke, he sings to himself, “ _Lowlands, Lowlands, away, my John, I dreamt I saw my own true love_ …”

His voice sends a warm shiver down Jonathan’s back, a faint heat that settles low against the base of his spine. It rasps against his eardrums, a single spot of light on an otherwise bleak night. Jonathan wonders if Geoffrey can see it, the way he makes him feel, because the hunter is definitely staring.

Not that Jonathan minds. He rather enjoys Geoffrey’s eyes on him.

The hunter moves a little closer and speaks in an urgent whisper, “We have to go in.”

Jonathan doesn’t answer immediately. He has a feeling that the man is coming out soon and he very much prefers fighting in open spaces if it comes to it. Geoffrey doesn’t seem to agree, however, because he takes a step towards the front door, reaching for the sword on his hip.

“Wait, Geoffrey,” Jonathan says, grabbing the hunter’s elbow. “Just wait a second.”

“What- why?” Geoffrey asks as a clash upstairs interrupts the tune.

Inside the house, McNamara exclaims, “Motherfucker!”

Geoffrey shoots Jonathan an alarmed look.

“What was that?” He demands.

“I think he dropped something,” Jonathan says. He takes a deep breath. There’s a sudden wave of alcohol in the air, faint and distant. “A bottle of… rum, I think? It’s broken.”

“That’s some nose you’ve got right there…” Geoffrey comments, unsheathing his sword with one fluid movement. Jonathan doesn’t let go of him, though. His hold tightens instead as adrenaline floods his veins. When Geoffrey tries to get away, Jonathan pulls him back.

Heavy footsteps sound inside the house, coming down the stairs, and they should observe first, right? They have the man’s description. They should make sure they have the right guy before charging in.

That’s what Jonathan thinks, at least, but Geoffrey is opening his mouth to protest and Jonathan can anticipate his outrage at being manhandled, so he very reasonably panics and kisses the hunter’s open mouth.

He realises his mistake the instant their lips touch, but the sensible person Jonathan used to be has died a while ago and, when Jonathan has Geoffrey’s lips under his, it doesn’t even feel like such a bad thing, not being a sensible person.

It is too hard, however. The kiss. And over way too fast.

As Jonathan steps back, he cannot tear his eyes away from Geoffrey’s flabbergasted glare. It is too much, all of a sudden, all these too intense emotions floating close to surface, both men standing on the brink of something great. Something terrible. Something sublime.

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan rasps out.

Geoffrey doesn’t blink. He seems to be barely breathing.

“Don’t be.” Is what Geoffrey says when he finally finds his words. He then takes a step forward, effectively crowding Jonathan against the wall of the house. His eyelids fall to half-mast as one big hand runs over the beard covering Jonathan’s jaw. “Com’ere,” the hunter says, more of a growl than actual words, but Jonathan goes as if he has no choice.

Maybe he does not have.

It’s not like Jonathan has really thought this through, but still he isn’t expecting how hard and deeply Geoffrey kisses him. It’s easy to relax, though, and let him take over. Let himself be kissed. Jonathan concentrates on kissing back, on keeping up with the hot tongue mapping his mouth, the way Geoffrey twists and turns as if he’s trying to climb inside the Ekon.

It’s only through the way Geoffrey kisses him that Jonathan realises that the hunter wants him back and just how _much_.

Jonathan parts his lips for the kiss to deepen and can feel his mouth already bruised by Geoffrey’s stubble, but he wouldn’t change anything. Geoffrey’s mouth has no longer any trace of the wine or the meal they shared, but Jonathan still wants to devour it.

Jonathan bites the hunter’s lips very carefully and the groan Geoffrey pours into his mouth goes straight to his groin. Geoffrey presses closer, their legs tangling together, chests pressed tightly against one another, and Jonathan can do little but hold on, heart threatening to beat right out of his ribcage.

A lot could happen just like this, Jonathan realises, remembering the wine from earlier and what it felt like to taste it. He hadn’t drunk wine in such a long time and what they’re doing now? What Geoffrey is doing to him? Well, Jonathan hasn’t done this in a long time as well.

Geoffrey grabs Jonathan by the hips with hands that are too tight, too rushed, bringing the Ekon away from the wall behind him and into his own body in a grinding motion, slow and dirty.

Jonathan doesn’t know if it’s Geoffrey with his big hands, his strong arms, broad chest pressed into his, or if it’s just his senses overwhelmed with stimuli. But as Geoffrey’s hands venture lower still, taking a firm hold of his ass, Jonathan finds himself embarrassingly close to a point he won’t be able to return from, hips straining for pressure, friction, cock throbbing in his trousers. He struggles with his own control, wanting nothing more than just throw Geoffrey against the closest horizontal surface and have his way with him…

Jonathan runs a hand through Geoffrey’s hair and moans into his mouth, no memory whatsoever of where they are and what they are supposed to be doing.

The world doesn’t stop just because you’re distracted, though, and so the front door of the house they’ve been observing opens and closes with a bang. Geoffrey pulls away from Jonathan with a groan and turns towards where McNamara is.

Jonathan is a mess of frustration and arousal, shaky as a newborn fawn, but Geoffrey puts himself together almost too fast for the Ekon’s liking. Stepping away from his companion, the hunter approaches their suspect.

“Oi! McNamara!” He calls out, hair an absolute mess. When the man responds to his name being called, Geoffrey promptly grabs him by the coat and throws him back against the closed door with a thud. He sounds at once angry and very satisfied when he asks, “Do you know who I am, you worthless piece of shite?”

And, yeah, as far as approaching a suspect goes, this might not be the best way to do it, but Geoffrey is high on so many different feelings and, as far as he’s concerned, McNamara does not deserve the least bit of consideration.

“Priwen,” McNamara replies with dawning realisation. Just by looking at him, Jonathan knows he has at least a couple of illnesses and enough alcohol in him to start a small fire. “I’m not a fucking leech, you idiot!”

“You’re worse!” Geoffrey replies, getting in the man’s face. He tightens his grasp on McNamara’s coat, almost lifting him off the ground. “Do you know _why_ I’m here?”

“‘Cause you ain’t got anything better to do with your fucking time? I don’t know. You tell me, guard!”

For his audacity, Geoffrey slaps him across the face. McNamara would have lost his balance were it not for Geoffrey’s grip on him, which he can’t seem to break no matter how much he struggles against it.

Jonathan takes a step forward, ready to intervene if the situation requires him to, but he’s pretty sure Geoffrey has everything under control.

“I’m here because you aren’t nearly as smart as you think you are,” Geoffrey grunts, digging into his coat pocket for a pair of handcuffs and forcing the suspect to turn around. The rage and disgust dripping from his voice would be ugly if it didn’t make Jonathan’s pulse speed up. The metal clicks closed around McNamara’s wrists and Geoffrey says, “You thought you could do what you did and face no consequences, huh?”

“Ooh, I see what this is about. Ouch!” McNamara complains as Geoffrey roughly pulls him towards the street, but still has the gall to mock him, “Hope you liked my craftsmanship.”

Geoffrey goes dangerously quiet for a second before snarling, “That’s fucking enough!”

“Geoffrey,” Jonathan warns as Geoffrey grabs McNamara by his collar.

With an unhappy grunt, Geoffrey lets go of the man to look at Jonathan. He can’t bear to look at him for too long, though, the kiss they shared still too vivid on his body, but he likes what he sees. Jonathan’s clothes aren’t so well adjusted right now, his tie a little loose, his beard all messed up.

“They had it coming, you know,” McNamara drunkenly drawls. Geoffrey huffs out a disbelieving breath. “Both of them, but that bitch Gabrielle most of all… she thought she was _so_ good.”

“But you showed her, right?” Jonathan manages, voice too loud in the empty street, grave and serious as a death sentence.

“Damn right I did,” McNamara gloats. Both his captors just stare at him, barely believing their ears. “It wasn’t easy, either. She was a tiny thing, but you wouldn’t believe how strong.”

Jonathan is about to tell him to shut up and he knows Geoffrey is too, but they are stunned into silence as the man continues, “Can you imagine? To trade all of _this_! For _that_! Not only a leech, but a fucking girl!”

 _All of this_ is a 5'5'' dirtbag who probably hasn’t washed himself in a week, judging by the smell. Jonathan makes a face and Geoffrey suggests, “Yeah, how about you tell that story to everyone at the police department?” He pushes McNamara forward and looks over at where Jonathan is standing two steps behind him. “You should go home, Jon. It’s almost morning already. I’ll take him in.”

“Are you sure?” Jonathan asks, taking a step forward. He knows Geoffrey is right and he really doesn’t want to venture the early morning sun anytime soon, but he doesn’t want to go home at the moment. There are words burning in his throat. Questions. Their main suspect has been captured, they have no reason to be working together anymore.

“Pretty sure,” Geoffrey says with a tired but reassuring smile and reaches out with his free hand. Jonathan reacts on instinct, fingers tangling with Geoffrey. The hunter pulls him close until he can kiss the Ekon’s lips, still open in surprise.

It’s such a simple gesture, barely more than a peck, and done as if it’s something perfectly normal, something they have always done. Still, it makes everything else seem so real in retrospect. Their collaboration for the last couple of days, the meal they shared in that isolated secret place, their fears, grievances.

 _This_ kiss feels so much more meaningful than the first one, more than a stolen kiss amidst adrenaline and darkness. As they part, Geoffrey whispers very gently, “Get some sleep, yeah? We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Jonathan nods.

“Wha- what? You _goddamn_ …” McNamara begins, staring at them in indignation, but they never find out what he is about to say because Geoffrey just goes ahead and punches him the face. He looks so satisfied with himself, grinning at Jonathan, that the Ekon can’t help but want to kiss him again. He doesn’t, though.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks as Geoffrey drags a screaming McNamara away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, one more chapter to go  
> *party sounds*  
> and there you go, not one, but TWO kisses  
> awww yeaaaa
> 
> again, let me know if I messed up on my grammar/spelling/smth else anywhere, 'cause this is coming out unbeta'ed.  
> love yuu guys! see you soon! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not clear why we choose the fire pathway  
> Where we end is not the way that we had planned  
> All the spirits gather 'round like it's our last day  
> To get across you know we’ll have to raise the sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST. MOTHERFUDGING. CHAPTER.
> 
> it's out because I can't stand revising it any longer (if I had it my way, I would be cracking my skull trying to get it to be absolutely FLAWLESS), but I just caught the flu and am seeing double and I wanted to get it out there. So, be forgiving with my typos and inconsistencies and let me know if there's anything too glaring out there, yea?
> 
> love you guys! hope you enjoy it!

This is not a usual night at the Turquoise Turtle since surprisingly cheerful drunks have replaced the sad ones that tend to occupy it. Not that Tom Watts is complaining. His clients somehow manage do drink even more when they’re happy, go figure.

Almost the entire Priwen Guard is there along with more than a few police officers. Even Paul Tillman, the Chief of Police, is hanging around a table in the back. It feels like it’s been so long since they’ve had a win, in this town. And God knows they needed a win.

So, they celebrate.

Jonathan Reid, however, only figures out where everyone is way after midnight, which is, incidentally, way after everyone is already completely shitfaced.

He walks into the pub and people start whispering among themselves. It’s the calm that precedes the storm, because as soon as his identity is confirmed, the crowd of clapping and hooting men immediately swallows him.

Jonathan is not usually awkward in social situations, you see, but he has no idea what to do with himself when people start giving him drinks he can’t consume, patting his back and shaking his hand over and over again. Needless to say, he is _very_ quickly becoming _very_ uncomfortable.

And then Jonathan sees _him_ , halfway across the room, shoving people aside to get closer.

Geoffrey.

The hunter abandons his half-empty glass of whiskey when he reaches the doctor and proceeds to grab the Ekon’s face with both hands. His cheeks are coloured bright pink by alcohol and glee, and he yells over the crowd, “He’s is jail, Jonathan! The fucking bastard confessed everything!” He comes closer still, his eyes so bright they steal the air right out of Jonathan’s lungs. Geoffrey just… he looks so damn _happy_ to see Jonathan. “We fucking got him, you beautiful bastard!”

And Jonathan wants to reply, but can barely get a syllable out before Geoffrey’s mouth is right there against his, open and wet and demanding to be kissed as though they were completely alone. And, even if it’s just for a second, it’s as if they are. Jonathan eagerly opens his mouth to Geoffrey’s tongue, holding him as fiercely as he is being held, and completely forgets where they are.

Because this? Well, this is what Jonathan has been thinking about since they parted ways the night before. It’s the kind of kiss that his mother would have called scandalous, that would have made Mary giggle and blush.

They _caught_ him. McNamara is locked up and Geoffrey… fuck, Geoffrey _still_ wants to kiss Jonathan, apparently, so life is good.

The piercing sound of whistling threatens to drag Jonathan back to the real world, but, as they draw apart, Geoffrey mischievous smile is a challenge the doctor can’t ignore.

With a movement too swift to be entirely human, Jonathan spins them so that he can press Geoffrey against the bar and kiss him the way he wants to. The way he’s been wanting to and wondering if he would ever get the chance to.

The whistling grows louder, followed by clapping and laughing exclamations of surprise. If people want to cheer them on, let them, Jonathan thinks as their mouths meet over and over again. Geoffrey relaxes against him in a way that makes the entire world seem right, all too happy to give control over, and Jonathan takes to opportunity to slow them down enough to whisper against the hunter’s lips, “So…” Geoffrey blinks at him with eyes at once too dark and shiny. “Yesterday…”

Geoffrey clears his throat. “I dropped him off at the police station. He might have broken his nose on the way there, don’t ask me how…” he whispers, laboured breath tickling Jonathan’s lips. The way he smirks, all too proud of himself, does weird, amazing things to Jonathan’s stomach. “He just wouldn’t _shut up_ , Jonathan, you have no idea…”

With a fond snort, Jonathan asks, “What happens now?”

He is talking about McNamara, but it feels like something else. Geoffrey’s hands run experimentally up and down his back before settling on his waist, hot and heavy and at the same time not nearly enough.

“He’ll be executed, no doubt about it,” Geoffrey says. Jonathan pushes a stray lock of hair out of the hunter’s face with an apologetically soft touch and watches the man’s eyelids flutter at the caress. He could very easily lose himself just _looking_ at Geoffrey, he realises. “That part’s out of our hands, though,” Geoffrey adds. Then, low as if it’s a secret, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Jonathan’s heart skips a beat. He sounds out of breath when he replies, “I’m glad too.”

The smile on Geoffrey’s lips, soft with hesitant hope, widens into something more predatory as he slides his hands lower, over Jonathan’s ass, squeezing the flesh and bringing the doctor’s body more firmly against his own. It makes Jonathan’s blood boil, the way their bodies fit against each other. He can feel the hardness between Geoffrey’s legs and he knows he’s meant to, knows the look in Geoffrey’s eyes all too well. The one that says, _look_. _Look_ _what you do to me_. Feel _it_.

“Oi, Tom! Give us a room!” Geoffrey suddenly yells over his shoulder, startling both Jonathan and the barkeeper.

“What?” Tom yells back, a confused frown on his face. He then takes in the image of the two men standing close together and sighs in resignation.

Jonathan would feel embarrassed if there were room for anything in his mind other than the anticipation boiling inside him.

Perfectly aware of the effect his proximity is having on the doctor, Geoffrey shifts his hips and lays a wet kiss on Jonathan’s neck before telling Tom, “Give us a bloody room, I said! Or I’ll fuck him right here on top of your bar. You choose.”

Jonathan has to bury his burning red face against Geoffrey’s neck. So, discretion is not Geoffrey’s strongest suit, but he knew that already. Or maybe it’s the whiskey fault. Maybe the relief of seeing justice taking its course, this feeling of invincibility running through their veins.

He still wonders, though, where on Earth Geoffrey got the idea that he would be the one to…

But then the keys are sliding across the counter and Jonathan discovers he has no problem at all with such premise. Especially if Geoffrey continues to hold him the way he is right now, hot lips laying increasingly wet kisses along his neck, hips pressing tight and intimate… well, Geoffrey can pretty much do whatever he wants with him, Jonathan thinks, body broken into shivers.

“Fucking Irish…” Watts complains as Geoffrey pockets the keys. More weary than angry, he adds, “Try not to destroy anything.”

“Heh. No promises,” Geoffrey replies with a smirk that only Jonathan sees. “Come on, Jon,” he says. “We’re celebrating.”

-x-

If anyone asked him, Jonathan wouldn’t be able to say which room they entered. He can only hope that Geoffrey got it right, but has barely more than a second to worry about it before his back hits the closed door and Geoffrey mouth is back on his, his tongue and hands hellbent on turning him into liquid.

Jonathan lets out a breath he didn’t even realise he’d been holding and kisses Geoffrey just as hard, holding him as close as he can as their legs shift and tangle in search of a better angle, more friction, more pressure.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” Geoffrey murmurs, breaking the kiss long enough to pull the red silk of Jonathan’s tie away with a movement that has no right to be that graceful. “I never thought you could possibly… I thought I was imagining things. Wishful thinking, I don’t know…”

“Oh, Geoffrey,” Jonathan has time to say before their lips meet again.

He has never kissed or been kissed this way. There is a ferocity and urgency underlining every caress, every touch of their tongues… Geoffrey kisses him as if he will never get a chance again, so Jonathan tries to meet him at every turn. When Geoffrey’s lips descend onto his neck, though, he can do nothing but moan in surprise and _hold on_.

Geoffrey definitely has a vampiric talent, Jonathan thinks as that hot mouth sucks wet bruising kisses onto his skin. The hunter chuckles against his companion’s ear and whispers in disbelief, “You took me on a fucking date and I still didn’t believe it. I must be seeing things, I thought…”

Geoffrey has only to touch the buttons on Jonathan’s waistcoat for the Ekon to start helping him. _So many buttons_ , he thinks as his clothes start hitting the floor.

The air inside the room is cold, but Geoffrey’s hands are hot as they trace the thin skin on his waist.  It should be uncomfortable to be this exposed. This vulnerable. But it only feels right. And it makes him throb with desire. “And then,” Geoffrey continues, rough fingers tracing a line from the soft hairs around Jonathan’s navel up the centre of his chest until they reach Jonathan’s parted, panting lips. It almost tickles, how soft the touch is. “… you _kissed_ me,” he says, amazed at his own words.

Jonathan inhales shakily and his head spins with want. The scent of Geoffrey’s arousal is so deliciously thick in the air between them, his sweat and the whiskey in his breath, the oils in his hair. It’s enough to make Jonathan’s mouth water, how masculine it all is. The roughness of Geoffrey’s voice, the unrelenting hardness pressed against his own, the scratch of his stubble still alight on the skin of Jonathan’s throat, on his reddened lips.

“And then I kissed you,” Jonathan echoes. He leans forward, angling for Geoffrey’s lips, but the hunter pulls back with a teasing grin. Eyes very serious, Jonathan admits, “I just… I couldn’t stop myself. Any longer.”

“Had you been? Stopping yourself, I mean,” Geoffrey asks, genuinely curious. Jonathan nods, a sincere smile parting his lips. So blind, this hunter of his. “From what?”

“From what I want to _do_ to you,” Jonathan replies, voice barely above a whisper. Geoffrey’s eyes darken. “From the things you make me want,” he adds, just see how Geoffrey’s breathing quickens. Somewhat sheepishly, he admits, “I sort of _am_ stopping myself right now.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” Geoffrey replies, a dirty roll on his hips and lips so close to Jonathan’s they’re breathing the same air now. “You’re not going to break me, Ekon.”

The way he almost spits the word _Ekon_ sharply contrasts with the smirk on his lips, the slow but sure press of his hips against Jonathan’s.

“You should kiss me again,” Geoffrey concludes and, well, Jonathan is not one to turn down such invitation. When he leans in, this time, Geoffrey doesn’t back away. Jonathan presses a hand on the back Geoffrey’s neck as they kiss. Under his fingertips, Geoffrey’s blood pulses strong and fast as Jonathan all but devours his mouth.

“Take it off,” Jonathan groans after a while, pulling uselessly at Geoffrey’s coat with his free hand. And if he sounds like a stubborn kid, Geoffrey doesn’t seem to mind, because he obeys immediately, his coat joining Jonathan’s clothes on the floor. He pauses, then, and Jonathan adds, “You’re a bit overdressed for what I want to do to you, Geoffrey, I’m afraid.”

That startles a laugh out of the hunter. “And what would that be, I wonder,” he retorts. He steps back, kicking his boots off, the rest of his clothes following soon after. Jonathan does the same to what’s left of his own clothes and even tries to help out, but he keeps getting in the way, eager hands reaching out to stroke the hair darkening on a path down Geoffrey’s chest and to palm the searing-hot length of the hunter’s erection through his briefs.

Geoffrey has to actually grab Jonathan and manoeuvre them towards the bed in order to finish undressing, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight the action grants him. Jonathan Reid, pale as a white opal, stretched across the mattress in all his naked glory, undeniably turned on. Waiting for him.

It’s not his body that makes Geoffrey shiver­ (even if it _is_ a quite pleasant view) but his eyes and the darkness behind them, the barely controlled danger of Jonathan’s desire.

Geoffrey has never been one to enjoy worshipping, the whole concept something absurd to him, but that’s what it feels like to kneel between Jonathan’s thighs and lean over him to get at his lips. Like he’s worshiping him. And it feels right.

Jonathan groans softly as their chests press together, his legs tangling with Geoffrey’s with movements that are more desperate than graceful. They kiss, trying and failing to supress their moans and bitten-off curses as their cocks align and rub together.

When Geoffrey takes them both in a grip that feels a lot more sure than he does, Jonathan gasps an “Oh, my god…” and holds on to Geoffrey’s shoulders, finger digging as he’s rendered unable to stop himself from thrusting forward into the heat of the hunter’s body.

“Fuck…” Geoffrey breathes out, sharply biting Jonathan’s shoulder. His fingers slide easily around their erections and he whispers in wonder, “You’re really wet, Jonathan. I can’t…”

Jonathan doesn’t have more than a second to wonder if him weeping precome all over Geoffrey’s hand and cock is a good or a bad thing because Geoffrey’s hand on his cock is gone, suddenly replaced by the hunter’s lips.

And Jonathan’s known for a while that he wanted Geoffrey, you see, and from the very moment they first kissed he knew that it would be good to be with Geoffrey like this. As much as he’d thought about it, however, the heat of Geoffrey’s mouth on his colder flesh is something he’s not ready for.

“Ah, fuck…” Jonathan brokenly sobs, more vowel than consonants. Geoffrey swallows him down, smart tongue trailing all along his length, and Jonathan very eloquently continues, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

As he touches Geoffrey’s face where it’s buried between his legs, he can’t help but remember the night they fought in the hospital. Before the Disaster. Before the murders. And wonder: how on Earth did they get here from there?

When Geoffrey finally comes up for air, Jonathan takes the chance to pull him back into another kiss. He can taste himself on Geoffrey’s lips and it makes him a little hazy with desire. “You’re going to be the death of me, hunter…” he manages.

“Hopefully a good kind of death…” Geoffrey prompts, voice raw. Jonathan chuckles.

“The best kind…” he assures him.

The way Geoffrey touches him — like he knows something about his body that Jonathan ignores, a bit of that same confidence with which he commands his men present on his ever touch and glance — makes it easy for Jonathan to let allow himself to be gently pushed to lay on his side, Geoffrey’s chest fitting against his back, his hips snug and tight against his ass. The Ekon reaches for Geoffrey’s hip, urging the hunter to move against him.

“God, I wanna fuck you…” Geoffrey groans against Jonathan’s neck. As Jonathan lets his head fall back, Geoffrey punctuates every word with a small roll of his hips, teasing and dirty. “Can I, Jon? Can I fuck you?”

“Yes,” Jonathan gasps, a bit too fast, too desperate. He’s thankful that Geoffrey doesn’t ask again, though, because he’s not above begging at this point. He feels like he’s been balancing on a razorblade, just about to lose his footing.

Still, it’s a tad surreal to have Geoffrey prepare him, thick fingers opening him up for what feels like hours before he lines himself up and slides inside. It seems to go on forever. Jonathan digs his nails on Geoffrey’s forearm where it’s draped across his chest, holding him tightly, but Geoffrey barely notices. The hunter keeps running the fingers of his free hand along Jonathan’s thighs in a teasing caress before stroking his cock for a bit and moving on to his chest, where he pinches and rolls Jonathan’s nipples like it’s all he’s been wanting to do all night long.

By the time Geoffrey starts moving, Jonathan is a complete mess. But, again, so is Geoffrey, his soft, almost hurt moans pouring into Jonathan’s ears as he thrusts with short, shaky shoves of his hips, barely able to keep himself from moving.

He lays a kiss against the corner of Jonathans mouth and asks, “Does it hurt?”

“No, it just…” Geoffrey’s hand is right there again, fingers just the right side of too tight around his cock, and it’s difficult to form a coherent thought. Geoffrey is waiting for an answer, though. “It feels… strange. But good.”

Geoffrey hums appreciatively. He asks, “Do you want me to stop?”

“No…” Jonathan replies, pushing back as if in warning. Softly, he asks, “Don’t stop.”

Geoffrey twists his wrist gently, ripping a soft moan out of Jonathan. There’s a smile on his voice when he asks, “Do you like it, then?”

“Damn it, I do…” Jonathan replies. When Geoffrey moves his hips a certain way, he feels closer and closer to begging for more. “God… harder,” he chokes out, face heating up. Geoffrey’s amused little chuckle turns into a throaty moan as he moves to obey. It’s clear he is still holding back, though. “I am not going to break, hunter,” Jonathan pushes. He half expects, half hopes for Geoffrey to lose his patience. What he doesn’t expect is for him to say:

“Don’t wanna hurt you…” and then his mouth is right there, begging for a kiss. Jonathan twists in his arms, chasing his tongue, and his fangs throb with the rest of his body.

“Can’t hurt me…” Jonathan reassures him with a toothy grin. Geoffrey’s eyes fall to his lips, to where his sharp fangs are exposed in an involuntary snarl. Geoffrey thrusts a bit faster, harder, brows furrowing as if in pain.

“Fuck…” he chokes out and then moves Jonathan’s legs so that he can lie on top of the Ekon, hips fitting between his thighs like a missing piece. _That’s better_ , Jonathan has a second to think before something — the angle, the pressure, something — makes him unable to think or to help his hips from moving along Geoffrey’s thrusts as if trying to take him in deeper, harder.

“Don’t stop,” Jonathan finds himself repeating more urgently, arching almost off the bed as the hunter angles his thrusts higher still. They gain momentum, lost into each other’s pleasure.

“Fuck… You’re…” Geoffrey loses track of his thoughts fits his fingers around Jonathan’s cock once more, stroking him in time with his hips. “You’re _beautiful_.”

“And _you_ …” Jonathan lifts his hands to hold on to Geoffrey’s neck, struggling to breathe. “… are a menace.”

And Geoffrey _would_ remark on how ironic it is that the Ekon would say that as he squirms on his cock and proceeds to make himself the most irresistible thing Geoffrey has ever laid eyes on. Really. He would. If only he still had the ability to produce coherent sentences as Jonathan’s body constricts around him, tighter and tighter as he approaches the edge.

Nothing that Geoffrey has seen in his life, and he’s seen plenty, would ever holds a candle to witnessing Jonathan’s climax. A couple of well-aimed thrusts and his cock starts pulsing into the unrelenting pressure of Geoffrey’s hand. His voice crumbles into the softest of sounds and he comes all over his own chest and stomach, eyes squeezed shut and muscles locked tight around Geoffrey.

Geoffrey strokes him through the aftershocks, holding on for just a little longer until he can’t anymore, hips pumping harder, all semblance of rhythm lost. He buries his face against Jonathan’s neck and sucks another bruise on his skin, shoving inside blindly and groaning deep in his chest. Jonathan lets out this surprised gasp as Geoffrey comes, spurting long and warm inside the Ekon.

Afterwards, they lay together in a messy tangle of limbs, struggling to catch their breaths, as they seem unable to stop kissing lazily.

“We didn’t even destroy anything,” Jonathan quips.

“Yet,” Geoffrey replies, chuckling against Jonathan’s neck. “Give me a few minutes, yeah, love? I’ll make sure we traumatise the passers-by out on the street.”

“You’re terrible,” Jonathan replies, not sure if the hunter is being serious about the few minutes he needs. Jonathan might need a bit more than a feel minutes if the way he can barely feel his legs is anything to go by.

“You _love_ me,” Geoffrey retorts. Jonathan takes a second to look at him — really _look_ at him, all flushed and satisfied like a well-fed cat under sunshine, hair an absolute mess and bruised smirk etched onto that handsome face.

“Fuck,” Jonathan breathes, realisation hitting him like a load of bricks. More to himself than to the hunter, he says, “I really, really do.”

“Good,” Geoffrey replies, serious under his breathlessness. His smirk softens into something sweeter as he says, “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, that was sex *runs to the hills*  
> 2.3k of sex and the rest is at the bar. i counted.  
> i might need to go on a spiritual retreat after that on idk yet
> 
> might need to find jesus (who I'm starting to think is actually Adam Jensen - guess who's playing deus ex? yay *whispers* I love him)  
> also: carnaval is just about to start over here (ô lelê ô lelê ô lelê ô lelê ô Brasil!) so happy carnaval wherever you guys are :D
> 
> also, let me know how you felt about all that and thank you SO MUCH for sticking around through this story, for your kudos and hits and comments <3 writing for this fandom has really been a highlight of this year thanks to you guys! See you around!  
> Lots of love  
> ~J


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